defeating a Reform Bill), Derby amazed his opponents and agitated
his friends by saying that he "reserved to himself complete liberty
to deal with the question of Parliamentary reform whenever suitable
occasion should arise." In February, 1867, Disraeli, on behalf
of the Tory Government, brought in the first really democratic
Reform Bill which England had ever known. He piloted it through
the House of Commons with a daring and a skill of which I was an
eye-witness, and, when it went up to the Lords, Derby persuaded
his fellow-peers to accept a measure which established household
suffrage in the towns.

It was "a revolution by due course of law," nothing less; and to
this day people dispute whether Disraeli induced Derby to accept
it, or whether the process was reversed. Derby called it "a leap
in the dark." Disraeli vaulted that he had "educated his party"
up to the point of accepting it. Both alike took comfort in the
fact that they had "dished the Whigs"--which, indeed, they had
done most effectually. The disgusted Clarendon declared that Derby
"had only agreed to the Reform Bill as he would of old have backed
a horse at Newmarket. He hates Disraeli, but believes in him as
he would have done in an unprincipled trainer: _he wins_--that
is all."

On the 15th of August, 1867, the Tory Reform Bill received the
Royal Assent, and Derby attained the summit of his career. Inspired
by whatever motives, influenced by whatever circumstances, the
Tory chief had accomplished that which the most liberal-minded of
his predecessors had never even dreamed of doing. He had rebuilt
the British Constitution on a democratic foundation.

At this point some account of Lord Derby's personal appearance
may be introduced. My impression is that he was only of the middle
height, but quite free from the disfigurement of obesity; light in
frame, and brisk in movement. Whereas most statesmen were bald,
he had an immense crop of curly, and rather untidy, hair and the
abundant whiskers of the period. His features were exactly of the
type which novelists used to call aristocratic: an aquiline nose,
a wide but firmly compressed mouth, and a prominent chin. His dress
was, even then, old-fashioned, and his enormous black satin cravat,
arranged in I know not how many folds, seemed to be a survival
from the days of Count D'Orsay. His air and bearing were such as
one expects in a man whose position needs no advertizing; and I
have been told that, even