ample,
the model love-story in 'Henrietta Temple.' Told by a cold and
unimaginative person, it would run to the following effect:--Ferdinand
Armine was the heir of a decayed Catholic family. Going into the army,
he raised great sums, like other thoughtless young men, on the strength
of his expectations from his maternal grandfather, a rich nobleman. The
grandfather, dying, left his property to Armine's cousin, Katherine
Grandison. Armine instantly made up his mind to marry his cousin and the
property, and his creditors were quieted by news of his engagement.
Meanwhile he met Henrietta Temple, and fell in love with her at first
sight. In spite of his judicious reticence, Miss Temple heard of his
engagement to Miss Grandison, and naturally broke off the match. She
fell into a consumption, and he into a brain fever. The heroes of novels
are never the worse for a brain fever or two, and young Armine, though
Miss Grandison becomes aware of the Temple episode, has judgment enough
to hide it from everybody else, and the first engagement is not
ostensibly broken off. Nay, Armine still continues to raise loans on the
strength of it--a proceeding which sounds very like obtaining money on
false pretences. His creditors, however, become more pressing, and at
last he gets into a sponging-house. Meanwhile Miss Temple has been cured
of her consumption by the heir to a dukedom, and herself becomes the
greatest heiress in England by an unexpected bequest. She returns from
Italy, engaged to her new lover, and hears of her old lover's
misfortunes. And then a 'happy thought' occurs to the two pairs of
lovers. If Miss Temple's wealth had come earlier, she might have married
Armine at first: why should she not do it now? It only requires an
exchange of lovers, which is instantly effected. The heir to the dukedom
marries the rich Miss Grandison; the rich Miss Temple marries Ferdinand
Armine; and everybody lives in the utmost splendour ever afterwards. The
moral to this edifying narrative appears to be given by the waiter at
the sponging-house. 'It is only poor devils nabbed for their fifties and
their hundreds that are ever done up,' says this keen observer. 'A nob
was never nabbed for the sum you are, sir, and never went to the wall.
Trust my experience, I never knowed such a thing.'

This judicious observation, translated into the language of art, gives
Disraeli's secret. His 'nobs' are so splendid in their surroundings,
such a magical ligh