If the fate of Walpole’s colleagues had been inseparably bound up with his, he probably would, even after the unfavourable elections of 1741, have been able to weather the storm.  But as soon as it was understood that the attack was directed against him alone, and that, if he were sacrificed, his associates might expect advantageous and honourable terms, the ministerial ranks began to waver, and the murmur of sauve qui peut was heard.  That Walpole had foul play is almost certain, but to what extent it is difficult to say.  Lord Islay was suspected; the Duke of Newcastle something more than suspected.  It would have been strange, indeed, if his Grace had been idle when treason was hatching.

“Ch’ i’ ho de’ traditor’ sempre sospetto, E Gan fu traditor prima che nato.”

“His name,” said Sir Robert, “is perfidy.”

Never was a battle more manfully fought out than the last struggle of the old statesman.  His clear judgment, his long experience, and his fearless spirit, enabled him to maintain a defensive war through half the session.  To the last his heart never failed him—­and, when at last he yielded, he yielded not to the threats of his enemies, but to the entreaties of his dispirited and refractory followers.  When he could no longer retain his power, he compounded for honour and security, and retired to his garden and his paintings, leaving to those who had overthrown him shame, discord, and ruin.

Everything was in confusion.  It has been said that the confusion was produced by the dexterous policy of Walpole; and, undoubtedly, he did his best to sow dissension amongst his triumphant enemies.  But there was little for him to do.  Victory had completely dissolved the hollow truce, which the two sections of the Opposition had but imperfectly observed, even while the event of the contest was still doubtful.  A thousand questions were opened in a moment.  A thousand conflicting claims were preferred.  It was impossible to follow any line of policy which would not have been offensive to a large portion of the successful party.  It was impossible to find places for a tenth part of those who thought that they had a right to office.  While the parliamentary leaders were preaching patience and confidence, while their followers were clamouring for reward, a still louder voice was heard from without, the terrible cry of a people angry, they hardly know with whom, and impatient they hardly knew for what.  The day of retribution had arrived.  The Opposition reaped that which they had sown.  Inflamed with hatred and cupidity, despairing of success by any ordinary mode of political warfare, and blind to consequences, which, though remote, were certain, they had conjured up a devil whom they could not lay.  They had made the public mind drunk with calumny and declamation.  They had raised expectations which it was impossible to satisfy.  The downfall of Walpole was to be the beginning of a political millennium; and every