I see him, methinks, in life, Premier of England, Lord Privy Seal,
Earl Beaconsfield of Beaconsfield, Viscount Hughenden of Hughenden,
sitting in his knightly stall, listening impassibly to the country
parson's sermon. His head droops on his breast, but his coal-black
inscrutable eyes are open.
It is the hour of his star.
He is just back from the Berlin Congress, bringing "Peace with
Honor." The Continent has stood a-tiptoe to see the wonderful English
Earl pass and repass. He has been the lion of a congress that included
Bismarck. The laurels and the Oriental palm placed by his landlord on
the hotel-balcony have but faintly typified the feeling of Europe. His
feverous reception in England, from Dover pier onwards, has recalled
an earlier, a more romantic world. Fathers have brought their little
ones to imprint upon their memories the mortal features of this
immortal figure, who passes through a rain of flowers to his throne in
Downing Street. The London press, with scarce an exception, is in the
dust at his feet--with the proud English nobles and all that has ever
flouted or assailed him.
The sunshine comes floridly through the stained-glass windows, and
lies upon the austere crucifix.