devils and famished scribblers.  Yet Walpole’s Duke and Smollett’s Duke are as like as if they were both from one hand.  Smollett’s Newcastle runs out of his dressing-room, with his face covered with soap-suds, to embrace the Moorish envoy.  Walpole’s Newcastle pushes his way into the Duke of Grafton’s sick-room to kiss the old nobleman’s plasters.  No man was so unmercifully satirised.  But in truth he was himself a satire ready made.  All that the art of the satirist does for other men, nature had done for him.  Whatever was absurd about him stood out with grotesque prominence from the rest of the character.  He was a living, moving, talking caricature.  His gait was a shuffling trot; his utterance a rapid stutter; he was always in a hurry; he was never in time; he abounded in fulsome caresses and in hysterical tears.  His oratory resembled that of justice Shallow.  It was nonsense—­effervescent with animal spirits and impertinence.  Of his ignorance many anecdotes remain, some well authenticated, some probably invented at coffee-houses, but all exquisitely characteristic.  “Oh—­yes—­yes—­to be sure—­ Annapolis must he defended—­troops must be sent to Annapolis—­ Pray where is Annapolis?”—­“Cape Breton an island!  Wonderful!—­ show it me in the map.  So it is, sure enough.  My dear sir, you always bring us good news.  I must go and tell the King that Cape Breton is an island.”

And this man was, during near thirty years, Secretary of State, and, during near ten years, First Lord of the Treasury!  His large fortune, his strong hereditary connection, his great parliamentary interest, will not alone explain this extraordinary fact.  His success is a signal instance of what may be effected by a man who devotes his whole heart and soul without reserve to one object.  He was eaten up by ambition.  His love of influence and authority resembled the avarice of the old usurer in the Fortunes of Nigel.  It was so intense a passion that it supplied the place of talents, that it inspired even fatuity with cunning.  “Have no money dealings with my father,” says Marth to Lord Glenvarloch; “for, dotard as he is, he will make an ass of you.”  It was as dangerous to have any political connection with Newcastle as to buy and sell with old Trapbois.  He was greedy after power with a greediness all his own.  He was jealous of all his colleagues, and even of his own brother.  Under the disguise of levity he was false beyond all example of political falsehood.  All the able men of his time ridiculed him as a dunce, a driveller, a child who never knew his own mind for an hour together; and he overreached them all round.

If the country had remained at peace, it is not impossible that this man would have continued at the head of affairs without admitting any other person to a share of his authority until the throne was filled by a new Prince, who brought with him new maxims of government, new favourites, and a strong will.  But the inauspicious commencement of the Seven Years’ War brought on a crisis to which Newcastle was altogether unequal.  After a calm of fifteen years the spirit of the nation was again stirred to its inmost depths.  In a few days the whole aspect of the political world was changed.