Coningsby | Page 7

where he found about two hundred youths of noble families
and connections, lodged in a magnificent villa, that had once been the
retreat of a minister, superintended by a sycophantic Doctor of Divinity,
already well beneficed, and not despairing of a bishopric by favouring
the children of the great nobles. The doctor's lady, clothed in cashmeres,
sometimes inquired after their health, and occasionally received a
report as to their linen.
Mr. Rigby had a classical retreat, not distant from this establishment,
which he esteemed a Tusculum. There, surrounded by his busts and
books, he wrote his lampoons and articles; massacred a she liberal (it
was thought that no one could lash a woman like Rigby), cut up a rising
genius whose politics were different from his own, or scarified some
unhappy wretch who had brought his claims before parliament, proving,
by garbled extracts from official correspondence that no one could refer
to, that the malcontent instead of being a victim, was, on the contrary, a
defaulter. Tadpole and Taper would back Rigby for a 'slashing reply'
against the field. Here, too, at the end of a busy week, he found it
occasionally convenient to entertain a clever friend or two of equivocal
reputation, with whom he had become acquainted in former days of

equal brotherhood. No one was more faithful to his early friends than
Mr. Rigby, particularly if they could write a squib.
It was in this refined retirement that Mr. Rigby found time enough,
snatched from the toils of official life and parliamentary struggles, to
compose a letter on the study of History, addressed to Coningsby. The
style was as much like that of Lord Bolingbroke as if it had been
written by the authors of the 'Rejected Addresses,' and it began, 'My
dear young friend.' This polished composition, so full of good feeling
and comprehensive views, and all in the best taste, was not published.
It was only privately printed, and a few thousand copies were
distributed among select personages as an especial favour and mark of
high consideration. Each copy given away seemed to Rigby like a
certificate of character; a property which, like all men of dubious repute,
he thoroughly appreciated. Rigby intrigued very much that the
headmaster of Eton should adopt his discourse as a class-book. For this
purpose he dined with the Doctor, told him several anecdotes of the
King, which intimated personal influence at Windsor; but the
headmaster was inflexible, and so Mr. Rigby was obliged to be content
with having his Letter on History canonized as a classic in the
Preparatory Seminary, where the individual to whom it was addressed
was a scholar.
This change in the life of Coningsby contributed to his happiness. The
various characters which a large school exhibited interested a young
mind whose active energies were beginning to stir. His previous
acquirements made his studies light; and he was fond of sports, in
which he was qualified to excel. He did not particularly like Mr. Rigby.
There was something jarring and grating in that gentleman's voice and
modes, from which the chords of the young heart shrank. He was not
tender, though perhaps he wished to be; scarcely kind: but he was
good-natured, at least to children. However, this connection was, on the
whole, an agreeable one for Coningsby. He seemed suddenly to have
friends: he never passed his holydays again at school. Mr. Rigby was so
clever that he contrived always to quarter Coningsby on the father of
one of his school-fellows, for Mr. Rigby knew all his school-fellows
and all their fathers. Mr. Rigby also called to see him, not unfrequently

would give him a dinner at the Star and Garter, or even have him up to
town for a week to Whitehall. Compared with his former forlorn
existence, these were happy days, when he was placed under the gallery
as a member's son, or went to the play with the butler!
When Coningsby had attained his twelfth year, an order was received
from Lord Monmouth, who was at Rome, that he should go at once to
Eton. This was the first great epoch of his life. There never was a youth
who entered into that wonderful little world with more eager zest than
Coningsby. Nor was it marvellous.
That delicious plain, studded with every creation of graceful culture;
hamlet and hall and grange; garden and grove and park; that
castle-palace, grey with glorious ages; those antique spires, hoar with
faith and wisdom, the chapel and the college; that river winding
through the shady meads; the sunny glade and the solemn avenue; the
room in the Dame's house where we first order our own breakfast and
first feel we are free; the stirring multitude, the energetic groups, the
individual mind that leads, conquers, controls; the emulation and