were dedicated in a warm inscription.  The Sidonia of the story was doubtless only echoing what Smythe had laid down as a dogma when he said:  “Man is only truly great when he acts from the passions, never irresistible but when he appeals to the imagination.”  It was the theory of Young England that the historic memory must be awakened in the lower classes; that utilitarianism was sapping the very vitals of society, and that ballads and May-poles and quaint festivities and processions of a loyal peasantry were the proper things for politicians to encourage.  It was all very young, and of course it came to nothing.  But I do not know that the Primrose League is any improvement upon it, and I fancy that when the Duke of Rutland looks back across the half-century he sees something to smile at, but nothing to blush for.

One of the notions that Young England had got hold of was that famous saying of Fletcher of Saltoun’s friend about making the ballads of a people.  So they set themselves verse-making, and a quaint little collection of books it was that they produced, all smelling alike at this time of day, with a faint, faded perfume of the hay-stack, countrified and wild.  Mr. Smythe, who presently became the seventh Viscount Strangford and one of the wittiest of Morning Chroniclers, only to die bitterly lamented before the age of forty, wrote Historic Fancies, Mr. Faber, then a fellow of University College, Oxford, and afterwards a leading spirit among English Catholics, published The Cherwell Water-Lily, in 1840, and on the heels of this discreet volume came the poems of Lord John Manners.

When England’s Trust appeared, its author had just left Cambridge.  Almost immediately afterward, it was decided that Young England ought to be represented in Parliament, where its Utopian chivalries, it was believed, needed only to be heard to prevail.  Accordingly Lord John Manners presented himself, in June 1841, as one of the Conservative candidates for the borough of Newark.  He was elected, and so was the other Tory candidate, a man already distinguished, and at present known to the entire world as Mr. W.E.  Gladstone.  On the hustings, Lord John Manners was a good deal heckled, and in particular he was teased excessively about a certain couplet in England’s Trust.  I am not going to repeat that couplet here, for after nearly half a century the Duke of Rutland has a right to be forgiven that extraordinary indiscretion.  If any of my readers turn to the volume for themselves, which, of course, I have no power to prevent their doing, they will probably exclaim: 

“Was it the Duke of Rutland who wrote that?” for if frequency of quotation is the hall-mark of popularity, his Grace must be one of the most popular of our living poets.