he exclaimed, "Et tu, Brute!" till the words were stereotyped upon his lips, all men in all places talked much about the great Gatherum Castle confederation. The Duke of Omnium, the world said, had taken into his high consideration the state of affairs, and seeing with his eagle's eye that the welfare of his countrymen at large required that some great step should be initiated, he had at once summoned to his mansion many members of the Lower House, and some also of the House of Lords—mention was here especially made of the all-venerable and all-wise Lord Boanerges; and men went on to say that there, in deep conclave, he had made known to them his views. It was thus agreed that the head of affairs, Whig as he was, must fall. The country required it, and the duke did his duty. This was the beginning, the world said, of that celebrated confederation by which the ministry was overturned, and—as the Goody Twoshoes added—the country saved. But the Jupiter took all the credit to itself; and the Jupiter was not far wrong. All the credit was due to the Jupiter—in that, as in every thing else.
In the mean time the Duke of Omnium entertained his guests in the quiet princely style, but did not condescend to have much conversation on politics either with Mr. Supplehouse or with Mr. Harold Smith. And as for Lord Boanerges, he spent the morning on which the above-described conversation took place in teaching Miss Dunstable to blow soap-bubbles on scientific principles.
"Dear, dear!" said Miss Dunstable, as sparks of knowledge came flying in upon her mind, "I always thought that a soap-bubble was a soap-bubble, and I never asked the reason why. One doesn't, you know, my lord."
"Pardon me, Miss Dunstable," said the old lord, "one does; but nine hundred and ninety-nine do not."
"And the nine hundred and ninety-nine have the best of it," said Miss Dunstable. "What pleasure can one have in a ghost after one has seen the phosphorus rubbed on?"
"Quite true, my dear lady. 'If ignorance be bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' It all lies in the 'if.'"
Then Miss Dunstable began to sing;
" 'What though I trace each herb and flower
That sips the morning dew—'
You know the rest, my lord."
