During Lord Oldborough’s absence, his faithful secretary had been active in his service. Mr. Temple went immediately to his friend Alfred Percy. Alfred had just returned fatigued from the courts, and was resting himself, in conversation with his wife and Caroline.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Alfred,” said Mr. Temple, “but I must take you away from these ladies to consult you on particular business.”

“Oh! let the particular business wait till he has rested himself,” said Mrs. Percy, “unless it be a matter of life and death.”

“Life and death!” cried Lady Frances Arlington, running in at the open door—“Yes, it is a matter of life and death!—Stay, Mr. Temple! Mr. Percy! going the moment I come into the room—Impossible!”

“Impossible it would be,” said Mr. Temple, “in any other case; but—”

cried Lady Frances. “So, positively, gentlemen, I stop the way. But, Mr. Temple, to comfort you—for I never saw a man, gallant or ungallant, look so impatient—I shall not be able to stay above a moment—Thank you, Mrs. Percy, I can’t sit down—Mrs. Crabstock, the crossest of Crabstocks and stiffest of pattern-women, is in the carriage waiting for me. Give me joy—I have accomplished my purpose, and without Lady Jane Granville’s assistance—obtained a permit to go with Lady Trant, and made her take me to Lady Angelica’s last night. Grand conversazione!—Saw the German baron! Caught both the profiles—have ‘em here—defy you not to smile. Look,” cried her ladyship, drawing out of her reticule a caricature, which she put into Caroline’s hand; and, whilst she was looking at it, Lady Frances went on speaking rapidly. “Only a sketch, a scrawl in pencil, while they thought I was copying a Sonnet to Wisdom—on the worst bit of paper, too, in the world—old cover of a letter I stole from Lady Trant’s reticule while she was at cards. Mr. Temple, you shall see my chef-d’oeuvre by and by; don’t look at the reverse of the medal, pray. Did not I tell you, you were the most impatient man in the world?”

It was true that Mr. Temple was at this instant most impatient to get possession of the paper, for on the back of that cover of the letter, on which the caricature was drawn, the hand-writing of the direction appeared to him—He dared scarcely believe his eyes—his hopes.

“Mrs. Crabstock, my lady,” said the footman, “is waiting.”

“I know, sir,” said Lady Frances: “so, Caroline, you won’t see the likeness. Very well; if I can’t get a compliment, I must be off. When you draw a caricature, I won’t praise it. Here! Mr. Temple, one look, since you are dying for it.”

“One look will not satisfy me,” cried Mr. Temple, seizing the paper: “your ladyship must leave the drawing with us till to-morrow.”

“Us—must. Given at our court of St. James’s. Lord Oldborough’s own imperative style.”

“Imperative! no; humbly I beseech your ladyship, thus humbly,” cried Mr. Temple, kneeling in jest, but keeping in earnest fast hold of the paper.

“But why—why? Are you acquainted with Lady Angelica? I did not know you knew her.”

“It is excellent!—It is admirable!—I cannot let it go. This hand that seized it long shall hold the prize.”

“The man’s mad! But don’t think I’ll give it to you—I would not give it to my mother: but I’ll lend it to you, if you’ll tell me honestly why you want it.”

“Honestly—I want to show it to a particular friend, who will be delighted with it.”

“Tell me who, this minute, or you shall not have it.”

“Mrs. Crabstock, my lady, bids me say, the duchess—”

“The duchess—the deuce!—if she’s come to the duchess, I must go. I hope your man, Mrs. Percy, won’t tell Mrs. Crabstock he saw this gentleman kneeling.”

“Mrs. Crabstock’s getting out, my lady,” said the footman, returning.

“Mr. Temple, for mercy’s sake, get up.”

“Never, till your ladyship gives the drawing.”

“There! there! let me go—audacious!”

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Percy—Good bye, Caroline—Be at Lady Jane’s to-night, for I’m to be there.”

Her ladyship ran off, and met Mrs. Crabstock on the stairs, with whom we leave her to make her peace as she pleases.

“My dear Temple, I believe you are out of your senses,” said Alfred: “I never saw any man so importunate about a drawing that is not worth a straw—trembling with eagerness, and kneeling!—Caroline, what do you think Rosamond would have thought of all this?”

“If she knew the whole, she would have thought I acted admirably,” said Mr. Temple. “But come, I have business.”

Alfred took him into his study, and there the whole affair was explained. Mr. Temple had brought with him the specimen of the forgery to show to Alfred, and, upon comparing it with the handwriting on the cover of the letter on which the caricature was drawn, the similarity appeared to be strikingly exact. The cover, which had been stolen, as Lady Frances Arlington said, from Lady Trant’s reticule, was directed to Captain Nuttall. He was one of the persons to whom forged letters had been written, as appeared by the list which Lord Oldborough had left with Mr. Temple. The secretary was almost certain that his lordship had never written with his own hand to any Captain Nuttall; but this he could ask the moment he should see Lord Oldborough again. It seemed as if this paper had never been actually used as the cover of a letter, for it had no post-mark, seal, or wafer. Upon farther inspection, it was perceived that a t had been left out in the name of Nuttall; and it appeared probable that the cover had been thrown aside, and a new one written, in consequence of this omission. But Alfred did not think it possible that Lady Trant could be the forger of these letters, because he had seen some of her ladyship’s notes of invitation to Caroline, and they were written in a wretched cramped hand.

“But that cramped hand might be feigned to conceal the powers of penmanship,” said Mr. Temple.

“Well! granting her ladyship’s talents were equal to the mere execution,” Alfred persisted in thinking she had not abilities sufficient to invent or combine all the parts of such a scheme. “She might be an accomplice, but she must have had a principal—and who could that principal be?”

The same suspicion, the same person, came at the same moment into the heads of both gentlemen, as they sat looking at each other.

“There is an intimacy between them,” said Alfred. “Recollect all the pains Lady Trant took for Mrs. Falconer about English Clay—they—”

“Mrs. Falconer! But how could she possibly get at Lord Oldborough’s private seal—a seal that is always locked up—a seal never used to any common letter, never to any but those written by his own hand to some private friend, and on some very particular occasion? Since I have been with him I have not seen him use that seal three times.”

“When and to whom, can you recollect?” said Alfred.

“I recollect!—I have it all!” exclaimed Mr. Temple, striking the table—“I have it! But, Lady Frances Arlington—I am sorry she is gone.”

“Why! what of her?—Lady Frances can have nothing more to do with the business.”

“She has a great deal more, I can assure you—but without knowing it.”

“Of that I am certain, or all the world would have known it long ago: but tell me how.”

“I recollect, at the time when I was dangling after Lady Frances—there’s good in every thing—just before we went down to Falconer-court, her ladyship, who, you know, has always some reigning fancy, was distracted about what she called bread-seals. She took off the impression of seals with bread—no matter how, but she did—and used to torment me—no, I thought it a great pleasure at the time—to procure for her all the pretty seals I could.”

“But, surely, you did not give her Lord Oldborough’s?”

“I!—not I!—how could you imagine such a thing?”

“You were in love, and might have forgotten consequences.”

“A man in love may forget every thing, I grant—except his fidelity. No, I never gave the seal; but I perfectly recollect Lady Frances showing it to me in her collection, and my asking her how she came by it.”

“And how did she?”

“From the cover of a note which the duke, her uncle, had received from Lord Oldborough; and I, at the time, remembered his lordship’s having written it to the Duke of Greenwich on the birth of his grandson. Lord Oldborough had, upon a former occasion, affronted his grace by sending him a note sealed with a wafer—this time his lordship took special care, and sealed it with his private seal of honour.”

“Well! But how does this bring the matter home to Mrs. Falconer?” said Alfred.

“Stay—I am bringing it as near home to her as possible. We all went down to Falconer-court together; and there I remember Lady Frances had her collection of bread-seals, and was daubing and colouring them with vermilion—and Mrs. Falconer was so anxious about them—and Lady Frances gave her several—I must see Lady Frances again directly, to inquire whether she gave her, among the rest, Lord Oldborough’s—I’ll go to Lady Jane Granville’s this evening on purpose. But had I not better go this moment to Lady Trant?”

Alfred advised, that having traced the matter thus far, they should not hazard giving any alarm to Lady Trant or to Mrs. Falconer, but should report to Lord Oldborough what progress had been made.

Mr. Temple accordingly went home, to be in readiness for his lordship’s return. In the mean time the first exaltation of indignant pride having subsided, and his cool judgment reflecting upon what had passed, Lord Oldborough considered that, however satisfactory to his own mind might be the feeling of his innocence, the proofs of it were necessary to satisfy the public; he saw that his character would be left doubtful, and at the mercy of his enemies, if he were in pique and resentment hastily to resign, before he had vindicated his integrity. “If your proofs be produced, my lord!”—these words recurred to him, and his anxiety to obtain these proofs rose high; and high was his satisfaction the moment he saw his secretary, for by the first glance at Mr. Temple’s countenance he perceived that some discovery had been made.

Alfred, that night, received through Mr. Temple his lordship’s request, that he would obtain what farther information he could relative to the private seal, in whatever way he thought most prudent. His lordship trusted entirely to his discretion—Mr. Temple was engaged with other business.

Alfred went with Caroline to Lady Jane Granville’s, to meet Lady Frances Arlington; he entered into conversation, and by degrees brought her to his point, playing all the time with her curiosity, and humouring her childishness, while he carried on his cross-examination.

At first she could not recollect any thing about making the seals he talked of. “It was a fancy that had passed—and a past fancy,” she said, “was like a past love, or a past beauty, good for nothing but to be forgotten.” However, by proper leading of the witness, and suggesting time, place, and circumstance, he did bring to the fair lady’s mind all that he wanted her to remember. She could not conceive what interest Mr. Percy could take in the matter—it was some jest about Mr. Temple, she was sure. Yes, she did recollect a seal with a Cupid riding a lion, that Mr. Temple gave her just before they went to Falconer-court—was that what he meant?

“No—but a curious seal—” (Alfred described the device.)

“Lord Oldborough’s! Yes, there was some such odd seal.” But it was not given to her by Mr. Temple—she took that from a note to her uncle, the Duke of Greenwich.

Yes—that, Alfred said, he knew; but what did her ladyship do with it?

“You know how I got it! Bless me! you seem to know every thing I do and say. You know my affairs vastly well—you act the conjuror admirably—pray, can you tell me whom I am to marry?”

“That I will—when your ladyship has told me to whom you gave that seal.”

“That I would, and welcome, if I could recollect—but I really can’t. If you think I gave it to Mr. Temple, I assure you, you are mistaken—you may ask him.”

“I know your ladyship did not give it to Mr. Temple—but to whom did you give it?”

“I remember now—not to any gentleman, after all—you are positively out. I gave it to Mrs. Falconer.”

“You are certain of that, Lady Frances Arlington?”

“I am certain, Mr. Alfred Percy.”

“And how can you prove it to me, Lady Frances?”

“The easiest way in the world—by asking Mrs. Falconer. Only I don’t go there now much, since Georgiana and I have quarrelled—but what can make you so curious about it?”

“That’s a secret.”—At the word secret, her attention was fixed.—“May I ask if your ladyship would know the seal again if you saw it?—Is this any thing like the impression?” (showing her the seal on the forged cover.)

“The very same that I gave Mrs. Falconer, I’ll swear to it—I’ll tell you how I know it particularly. There’s a little outer rim here, with points to it, which there is not to the other. I fastened my bread-seal into an old setting of my own, from which I had lost the stone. Mrs. Falconer took a fancy to it, among a number of others, so I let her have it. Now I have answered all your questions—answer mine—Whom am I to marry?”

“Your ladyship will marry whomsoever—your ladyship pleases.”

“That was an ambiguous answer,” she observed; “for that she pleased every body.” Her ladyship was going to run on with some further questions, but Alfred pretending that the oracle was not permitted to answer more explicitly, left her completely in the dark as to what his meaning had been in this whole conversation.

He reported progress to Lord Oldborough—and his lordship slept as soundly this night as he did the night after he had been attacked by the mob.

The next morning the first person he desired to see was Mr. Falconer—his lordship sent for him into his cabinet.

“Mr. Commissioner Falconer, I promised to give you notice, whenever I should see any probability of my going out of power.”

“Good Heaven! my lord,” exclaimed the commissioner, starting back. The surprise, the consternation were real—Lord Oldborough had his eye upon him to determine that point.

“Impossible, surely!—I hope—”

His hope flitted at the moment to the Duke of Greenwich—but returned instantly: he had made no terms—had missed his time. If Lord Oldborough should go out of office—his place, his pension, gone—utter ruin.

Lord Oldborough marked the vacillation and confusion of his countenance, and saw that he was quite unprepared.

“I hope—Merciful Powers! I trust—I thought your lordship had triumphed over all your enemies, and was firmer in favour and power than ever. What can have occurred?”

Without making any answer, Lord Oldborough beckoned to the commissioner to approach nearer the window where his lordship was standing, and then suddenly put into his hand the cover with the forged handwriting and seal.

“What am I to understand by this, my lord?” said the bewildered commissioner, turning it backwards and forwards. “Captain Nuttall!—I never saw the man in my life. May I ask, my lord, what I am to comprehend from this?”

“I see, sir, that you know nothing of the business.”

The whole was explained by Lord Oldborough succinctly. The astonishment and horror in the poor commissioner’s countenance and gestures, and still more, the eagerness with which he begged to be permitted to try to discover the authors of this forgery, were sufficient proofs that he had not the slightest suspicion that the guilt could be traced to any of his own family.

Lord Oldborough’s look, fixed on the commissioner, expressed what it had once before expressed—“Sir, from my soul, I pity you!”

The commissioner saw this look, and wondered why Lord Oldborough should pity him at a time when all his lordship’s feelings should naturally be for himself.

“My lord, I would engage we shall discover—we shall trace it.”

“I believe that I have discovered—that I have traced it,” said Lord Oldborough; and he sighed.

Now that sigh was more incomprehensible to the commissioner than all the rest, and he stood with his lips open for a moment before he could utter, “Why then resign, my lord?”

“That is my affair,” said Lord Oldborough. “Let us, if you please, sir, think of yours; for, probably, this is the only time I shall ever more have it in my power to be of the least service to you.”

“Oh! my lord—my lord, don’t say so!” said the commissioner quite forgetting all his artificial manner, and speaking naturally: “the last time you shall have it in your power!—Oh! my dear lord, don’t say so!”

“My dear sir, I must—it gives me pain—you see it does.”

“At such a time as this to think of me instead of yourself! My lord, I never knew you till this moment—so well.”

“Nor I you, sir,” said Lord Oldborough. “It is the more unfortunate for us both, that our connexion and intercourse must now for ever cease.”

“Never, never, my lord, if you were to go out of power to-morrow—which Heaven, in its mercy and justice, forbid! I could never forget the goodness—I would never desert—in spite of all interest—I should continue—I hope your lordship would permit me to pay my duty—all intercourse could never cease.”

Lord Oldborough saw, and almost smiled at the struggle between the courtier and the man—the confusion in the commissioner’s mind between his feelings and his interest. Partly his lordship relieved, and partly he pained Mr. Falconer, by saying, in his firm tone, “I thank you, Mr. Falconer; but all intercourse must cease. After this hour, we meet no more. I beg you, sir, to collect your spirits, and to listen to me calmly. Before this day is at an end, you will understand why all farther intercourse between us would be useless to your interest, and incompatible with my honour. Before many hours are past, a blow will be struck which will go to your heart—for I see you have one—and deprive you of the power of thought. It is my wish to make that blow fall as lightly upon you as possible.”

“Oh! my lord, your resignation would indeed be a blow I could never recover. The bare apprehension deprives me at this moment of all power of thought; but still I hope—”

“Hear me, sir, I beg, without interruption: it is my business to think for you. Go immediately to the Duke of Greenwich, make what terms with him you can—make what advantage you can of the secret of my approaching resignation—a secret I now put in your power to communicate to his grace, and which no one yet suspects—I having told it to no one living but to yourself. Go quickly to the duke—time presses—I wish you success—and a better patron than I have been, than my principles would permit me to be. Farewell, Mr. Falconer.”

The commissioner moved towards the door when Lord Oldborough said “Time presses;” but the commissioner stopped—turned back—could not go: the tears—real tears—rolled down his cheeks—Lord Oldborough went forward, and held out his hand to him—the commissioner kissed it, with the reverence with which he would have kissed his sovereign’s hand; and bowing, he involuntarily backed to the door, as if quitting the presence of majesty.

“It is a pity that man was bred a mere courtier, and that he is cursed with a family on none of whom there is any dependence,” thought Lord Oldborough, as the door closed upon the commissioner for ever.

Lord Oldborough delayed an hour purposely, to give Mr. Falconer advantage of the day with the Duke of Greenwich: then ordered his carriage, and drove to—Mrs. Falconer’s.

Great was her surprise at the minister’s entrance.—“Concerned the commissioner was not at home.”

“My business is with Mrs. Falconer.”

“My lord—your lordship—the honour and the pleasure of a visit—Georgiana, my dear.”

Mrs. Falconer nodded to her daughter, who most unwillingly, and as if dying with curiosity, retired.

The smile died away upon Mrs. Falconer’s lips as she observed the stern gravity of Lord Oldborough’s countenance. She moved a chair towards his lordship—he stood, and leaning on the back of the chair, paused, as he looked at her.

“What is to come?—Cunningham, perhaps,” thought Mrs. Falconer; “or perhaps something about John. When will he speak?—I can’t—I must—I am happy to see your lordship looking so well.”

“Is Mrs. Falconer acquainted with Lady Trant?”

“Lady Trant—yes, my lord.”

“Mercy! Is it possible?—No, for her own sake she would not betray me,” thought Mrs. Falconer.

“Intimately?” said Lord Oldborough.

“Intimately—that is, as one’s intimate with every body of a certain sort—one visits—but no farther—I can’t say I have the honour—”

Mrs. Falconer was so distracted by seeing Lord Oldborough searching in his pocket-book for a letter, that in spite of all her presence of mind, she knew not what she said; and all her presence of countenance failed, when Lord Oldborough placed before her eyes the cover directed to Captain Nuttall.

Can you guess how this came into Lady Trant’s possession, madam?”

“I protest, my lord,” her voice trembling, in spite of her utmost efforts to command it, “I don’t know—nor can I conceive—”

“Nor can you conceive by whom it was written, madam?”

“It appears—it bears a resemblance—some likeness—as far as I recollect—but it is so long since I have seen your lordship’s own hand—and hands are so like—sometimes—and I am so bad a judge—every hand, all fashionable hands, are so like.”

“And every seal like every seal?” said Lord Oldborough, placing the counterfeit seal before Mrs. Falconer. “I recommend it to you, madam, to waste no farther time in evasion; but to deliver to me the counterpart of this seal, the impression of my private seal, which you had from Lady Frances Arlington.”

“A mere bread-seal! Her ladyship surely has not said—I really have lost it—if I ever had it—I declare your lordship terrifies me so, by this strange mode—”

“I recommend it to you once more, madam, and for the last time I earnestly recommend it to you, to deliver up to me that seal, for I have sworn to my belief that it is in your possession; a warrant will in consequence be issued, to seize and search your papers. The purport of my present visit, of which I should gladly have been spared the pain, is to save you, madam, from the public disgrace of having a warrant executed. Do not faint, madam, if you can avoid it, nor go into hysterics; for if you do, I must retire, and the warrant must be executed. Your best course is to open that desk, to give me up the seal, to make to me at this instant a full confession of all you know of this transaction. If you do thus, for your husband’s sake, madam, I will, as far as I can consistently with what is due to myself, spare you the shame of an arrest.”

Mrs. Falconer, with trembling hands, unlocked the desk, and delivered the seal.

“And a letter which I see in the same hand-writing, madam, if you please.”

She gave it; and then, unable to support herself longer, sunk upon a sofa: but she neither fainted nor screamed—she was aware of the consequences. Lord Oldborough opened the window to give her air. She was relieved by a burst of tears, and was silent—and nothing was heard but her sobs, which she endeavoured to suppress in vain. She was more relieved on looking up by one glance at Lord Oldborough’s countenance, where she saw compassion working strongly.

But before she could take any advantage of it, the expression was changed, the feeling was controlled: he was conscious of its weakness—he recollected what public justice, and justice to his own character, required—he recollected all the treachery, the criminality, of which she had been guilty.

“Madam, you are not now in a condition, I see, to explain yourself farther—I will relieve you from my presence: my reproaches you will never hear; but I shall expect from you, before one hour, such an avowal in writing of this whole transaction, as may, with the written confession of Lady Trant, afford the proofs which are due to my sovereign, and to the public, of my integrity.”

Mrs. Falconer bowed her head, covered her face, clasped her hands in agony: as Lord Oldborough retired, she sprang up, followed to throw herself at his feet, yet without knowing what she could say.

“The commissioner is innocent!—If you forsake him, he is undone—all, all of us, utterly ruined! Oh! Georgiana! Georgiana! where are you? speak for me!”

Georgiana was in an inner apartment, trying on a new robe À la Georgienne.

“Whatever you may wish farther to say to me, madam,” said Lord Oldborough, disengaging himself from her, and passing decidedly on, before Georgiana appeared, “you will put in writing, and let me have within this hour—or never.”

Within that hour, Commissioner Falconer brought, for Lord Oldborough, the paper his wife had drawn up, but which he was obliged to deliver to Mr. Temple; for Lord Oldborough had so ordered, and his lordship persevered in refusing to see him more. Mrs. Falconer’s paper was worded with all the art and address of which she was mistress, and all the pathos she could command—Lord Oldborough looked only for facts—these he marked with his pencil, and observed where they corroborated and where they differed from Lady Trant’s confession, which Mr. Temple had been charged to obtain during his lordship’s visit to Mrs. Falconer. The greater part of the night Lord Oldborough and Mr. Alfred Percy were employed arranging these documents, so as to put the proofs in the clearest and shortest form, to be laid before his majesty the succeeding day.

It appeared that Mrs. Falconer had been first tempted to these practices by the distress for money into which extravagant entertainments, or, as she stated, the expenses incident to her situation—expenses which far exceeded her income—had led her. It was supposed, from her having kept open house at times for the minister, that she and the commissioner had great influence; she had been applied to—presents had been offered, and she had long withstood. But at length, Lady Trant acting in concert with her, they had been supplied with information by a clerk in one of the offices, a relation of Lady Trant, who was a vain, incautious youth, and, it seems, did not know the use made of his indiscretion: he told what promotions he heard spoken of—what commissions were making out. The ladies prophesied, and their prophecies being accomplished, they gained credit. For some time they kept themselves behind the scenes—and many, applying to A.B., and dealing with they did not know whom, paid for promotions which would have come unpaid for; others paid, and were never promoted, and wrote letters of reproach—Captain Nuttall was among these, and he it was, who, finding himself duped, first stirred in the business; and by means of an active member of opposition, to whom he made known his secret grievance, brought the whole to light.

The proofs arranged (and Lord Oldborough never slept till they were perfected), he reposed tranquilly. The next day, asking an audience of his majesty, he simply laid the papers on his majesty’s table, observing that he had been so fortunate as to succeed in tracing the forgery, and that he trusted these papers contained all the necessary proofs.

His lordship bowed and retired instantly, leaving his majesty to examine the papers alone.

The resolution to resign his ministerial station had long been forming in Lord Oldborough’s mind. It was not a resolution taken suddenly in pride or pique, but after reflection, and upon strong reasons. It was a measure which he had long been revolving in his secret thoughts. During the enthusiasm of political life, the proverbial warnings against the vanity of ambition, and the danger of dependence on the favour of princes, had passed on his ear but as a schoolboy’s lesson: a phrase “to point a moral, or adorn a tale.” He was not a reading man, and the maxims of books he disregarded or disbelieved; but in the observations he made for himself he trusted: the lessons he drew from life were never lost upon him, and he acted in consequence of that which he believed, with a decision, vigour, and invariability, seldom found even among philosophers. Of late years he had, in real life, seen striking instances of the treachery of courtiers, and had felt some symptoms of insecurity in the smile of princes. Fortune had been favourable to him—she was fickle—he determined to quit her before she should change. Ambition, it is true, had tempted him—he had risen to her highest pinnacle: he would not be hurled from high—he would descend voluntarily, and with dignity. Lord Oldborough’s habits of thought were as different as possible from those of a metaphysician: he had reflected less upon the course of his own mind than upon almost any other subject; but he knew human nature practically; disquisitions on habit, passion, or the sovereign good, were unread by him, nor, in the course of his life, had he ever formed a system, moral or prudential; but the same penetration, the same longanimity, which enabled him to govern the affairs of a great nation, gave him, when his attention turned towards himself, a foresight for his own happiness. In the meridian of life, he had cherished ambition, as the only passion that could supply him with motive strong enough to call great powers into great action. But of late years he had felt something, not only of the waywardness of fortune, but of the approaches of age—not in his mind, but in his health, which had suffered by his exertions. The attacks of hereditary gout had become more violent and more frequent. If he lived, these would, probably, at seasons, often incapacitate him from his arduous ministerial duties: much, that he did well, must be ill done by deputy. He had ever reprobated the practice of leaving the business of the nation to be done by clerks and underlings in office. Yet to this the minister, however able, however honest, must come at last, if he persist in engrossing business and power beyond what an individual can wield. Love for his country, a sense of his own honour, integrity, and consistency, here combined to determine this great minister to retire while it was yet time—to secure, at once, the dignity and happiness of the evening of life. The day had been devoted to good and high purposes—that was enough—he could now, self-satisfied and full of honour, bid adieu to ambition. This resolution, once formed, was fixed. In vain even his sovereign endeavoured to dissuade him from carrying it into execution.

When the king had examined the papers which Lord Oldborough had laid before him, his majesty sent for his lordship again, and the moment the minister entered the cabinet, his majesty expressed his perfect satisfaction in seeing that his lordship had, with so little trouble, and with his usual ability, got to the bottom of this affair.

What was to be done next? The Duke of Greenwich was to be summoned. His grace was in astonishment when he saw the papers which contained Lord Oldborough’s complete vindication, and the crimination of Mrs. Falconer. Through the whole, as he read on, his grace had but one idea, viz. “Commissioner Falconer has deceived me with false intelligence of the intended resignation.” Not one word was said by Lord Oldborough to give his grace hope of that event—till the member of opposition by whom the forged letters had been produced—till all those who knew or had heard any thing of the transaction were clearly and fully apprised of the truth. After this was established, and that all saw Lord Oldborough clear and bright in honour, and, at least apparently, as firm in power as he had ever been, to the astonishment of his sovereign his lordship begged permission to resign.

Whatever might have been the effect of misrepresentation, to lower Lord Oldborough’s favour, at the moment when he spoke of retiring, his king recollected all his past services—all that must, in future, be hazarded and lost in parting with such a minister—so eminent in abilities, of such tried integrity, of such fidelity, such attachment to his person, such a zealous supporter of royalty, such a favourite with his people, so successful as well as so able a minister! Never was he so much valued as at this moment. All his sovereign’s early attachment returned in full strength and warmth.

“No, my lord, you must not—you will not leave me.”

These simple words, spoken with the warmth of the heart, touched Lord Oldborough more than can be told. It was difficult to resist them, especially when he saw tears in the eyes of the monarch whom he loved.

But his resolution was taken. He thanked his majesty, not with the common-place thanks of courtiers, but with his whole heart and soul he thanked his majesty for this gracious condescension—this testimony of approbation—these proofs of sensibility to his attachment, which paid—overpaid him, in a moment, for the labours of a life. The recollection of them would be the glory, the solace of his age—could never leave his memory while life lasted—would, he thought, be present to him, if he should retain his senses, in his dying moment. But he was, in the midst of this strong feeling, firm to the resolution his reason had taken. He humbly represented, that he had waited for a favourable time when the affairs of the country were in a prosperous train, when there were few difficulties to embarrass those whom his majesty might name to succeed to his place at the head of administration: there were many who were ambitious of that station—zeal, talents, and the activity of youth were at his majesty’s command. For himself, he found it necessary for his health and happiness to retire from public business; and to resign the arduous trust with which he had been honoured.

“My lord, if I must accept of your resignation, I must—but I do it with regret. Is there any thing your lordship wishes—any thing you will name for yourself or your friends, that I can do, to show my sense of your services and merit?”

“For myself, your majesty’s bounty has left me nothing to wish.”

“For your friends, then, my lord?—Let me have the satisfaction of obliging you through them.”

Nothing could be more gracious or more gratifying than the whole of this parting audience. It was Lord Oldborough’s last audience.

The news of his resignation, quickly whispered at court, was not that day publicly known or announced. The next morning his lordship’s door was crowded beyond example in the memory of ministers. Mr. Temple, by his lordship’s order, announced as soon as possible the minister’s having resigned. All were in astonishment—many in sorrow: some few—a very few of the most insignificant of the crowd, persons incapable of generous sympathy, who thought they could follow their own paltry interests unnoticed—left the room, without paying their farewell respects to this great minister—minister now no more.

The moment he appeared, there was sudden silence. All eyes were fixed upon him, every one pressing to get into the circle.

“Gentlemen, thank you for these marks of attention—of regard. Mr. Temple has told you—you know, my friends, that I am a man without power.”

“We know,” answered a distinguished gentleman, “that you are Lord Oldborough. With or without power, the same in the eyes of your friends, and of the British nation.”

Lord Oldborough bowed low, and looked gratified. His lordship then went round the circle with an air more cheerful, more free from reserve, than usual; with something in his manner more of sensibility, but nothing less of dignity. All who merited distinction he distinguished by some few appropriate words, which each remembered afterwards, and repeated to their families and friends. He spoke or listened to each individual with the attention of one who is courting, not quitting, popularity. Free from that restraint and responsibility which his public and ministerial duties had imposed upon him, he now entered into the private concerns of all, and gave his parting assistance or counsel. He noted all grievances—registered all promises that ought to be recommended to the care of his successor in office. The wishes of many, to whom he had forborne to give any encouragement, he now unexpectedly fulfilled and surpassed. When all were satisfied, and had nothing more to ask or to hope from him, they yet delayed, and parted from Lord Oldborough with difficulty and regret.

A proof that justice commands more than any other quality the respect and gratitude of mankind. Take time and numbers into the calculation, and all discover, in their turn, the advantage of this virtue. This minister, a few regretted instances excepted, had shown no favour, but strict justice, in his patronage.

All Lord Oldborough’s requests for his friends were granted—all his recommendations attended to: it was grateful to him to feel that his influence lasted after his power had ceased. Though the sun had apparently set, its parting rays continued to brighten and cheer the prospect.

Under a new minister, Mr. Temple declined accepting of the embassy which had been offered to him. Remuneration suitable to his services, and to the high terms in which Lord Oldborough had spoken of his merit, was promised; and without waiting to see in what form, or manner, this promise would be accomplished, the secretary asked and obtained permission to accompany his revered master to his retirement. Alfred Percy, zealous and ardent in Lord Oldborough’s service, the more this great man’s character had risen upon his admiration, had already hastened to the country to prepare every thing at Clermont-park for his reception. By his orders, that establishment had been retrenched; by Alfred Percy’s activity it was restored. Services, which the richest nobleman in the land could not have purchased, or the highest have commanded, Alfred was proud to pay as a voluntary tribute to a noble character.

Lord Oldborough set out for the country at a very early hour in the morning, and no one previously knew his intentions, except Mr. Temple. He was desirous to avoid what it had been whispered was the design of the people, to attend him in crowds through the streets of the metropolis.

As they drove out of town, Lord Oldborough recollected that in some account, either of the Duke of Marlborough, or the Duke of Ormond’s leaving London, after his dismission from court, it is said, that of all those whom the duke had served, all those who had courted and flattered him in the time of his prosperity and power, none showed any gratitude or attachment, excepting one page, who appeared at the coach-door as his master was departing, and gave some signs of genuine sorrow and respect.

“I am fortunate,” said Lord Oldborough, “in having few complaints to make of ingratitude. I make none. The few I might make,” continued his lordship, who now rewarded Mr. Temple’s approved fidelity, by speaking to him with the openness and confidence of friendship, “the few I might make have been chiefly caused by errors of my own in the choice of the persons I have obliged. I thank Heaven, however, that upon the whole I leave public life not only with a good conscience, but with a good opinion of human nature. I speak not of courtiers—there is nothing of nature about them—they are what circumstances make them. Were I to live my life over again, the hours spent with courtiers are those which I should most wish to be spared; but by a statesman, or a minister, these cannot be avoided. For myself, in resigning my ministerial office, I might say, as Charles the Fifth, when he abdicated, said to his successor, ‘I leave you a heavy burthen; for since my shoulders have borne it, I have not passed one day exempt from anxiety.’

“But from the first moment I started in the course of ambition, I was aware that tranquillity must be sacrificed; and to the last moment I abided by the sacrifice. The good I had in view, I have reached—the prize at which I aimed, I have won. The glory of England was my object—her approbation my reward. Generous people!—If ever I bore toil or peril in your cause, I am rewarded, and never shall you hear me say that ‘the unfruitful glories please no more.’ The esteem of my sovereign!—I possess it. It is indefeasibly mine. His favour, his smiles, are his to give, or take away. Never shall he hear from me the wailings of disappointed ambition.”