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Benjamin Disraeli
by
O’Connell and Disraeli, although unlike, had much in common and should have been fast friends. Surely the age and distinguished record of O’Connell must have commanded Disraeli’s respect, but we know how they grappled in wordy warfare. Disraeli called the Irishman an incendiary, and O’Connell, who was a past master in abuse, replied in a speech wherein he exhausted the Billingsgate lexicon. He wound up by a reference to the ancestry of his opponent, and a suggestion that “this renegade Jew is descended from the impenitent thief, whose name was doubtless Disraeli.” It was a home-thrust–a picture so exaggerated and overdrawn that all England laughed. The very extravagance of the simile should have saved the allusion from resentment; but it touched Disraeli in his most sensitive spot–his pride of birth.
He straightway challenged his traducer. O’Connell had killed a man in a duel years before, and then vowed he would never again engage in mortal combat.
Disraeli intimated that he would fight O’Connell’s son, Morgan, if preferred, a man of his own age.
Morgan replied that his father insulted so many men he could not set the precedent of fighting them all, or standing sponsor for an indiscreet parent. But with genuine Irish spirit he suggested that if the son of Abraham was intent on fight and could not be persuaded to be sensible, why, the matter could probably be arranged.
Happily, about this time, police officers invaded the apartments of Disraeli and arrested him on a bench-warrant. He was bound over, to his great relief, in the sum of five hundred pounds to keep the peace.
O’Connell never took the matter very seriously, and referred soon after in a speech to “my excellent, though slightly bellicose friend, child of an honored race.”
Disraeli did not take up politics to make money–the man who does that may win in his desires, but his career is short. Nothing but honesty really succeeds. Disraeli knew this, and in his record there is no taint. But the income of a member of the House of Commons affords no opportunity for display. Disraeli’s books brought him in only small sums, and his father’s moderate fortune had been sadly drawn upon. He was well past thirty, and was not making head, simply because he was cramped for funds. To rise in politics you must have an establishment; you must entertain and reach out and bring those you wish to influence within your scope. A third floor back, in an ebb-tide street, will not do. Like Agassiz, Disraeli had no time to make money–it was a sad plight. But this was a man of destiny, and to use the language of Augustine Birrell, “Wyndam Lewis at this time accommodatingly died.” Mrs. Wyndam Lewis had been the firm friend and helper of Disraeli for many years, and although a small matter of fifteen years separated them as to ages, yet their hearts beat as one.
Scarce a twelvemonth had gone before the widow and Disraeli were married. They disappeared from London for some months, journeying on the Continent. When they returned all the old scores in way of unpaid bills against Disraeli were paid, and he was master of an establishment.
Disraeli was thirty-five, his wife was fifty, but it was a happy mating. They thought alike, and their ambitions were the same. Disraeli treated his wife with all the courtly grace and deference in which he was an adept, and her princely fortune was absolutely his. “There was much cause for gratitude on both sides,” said O’Connell. And there is no doubt that Disraeli’s wife proved the firmest friend he ever had. For many years she was his sole confidante and best adviser. She attended him everywhere and relieved him of many burdens. That true incident of her fingers being crushed by the careless slamming of the carriage-door, and her hiding the bleeding members in her muff, and attending her husband to the House of Commons, where he was to speak, refusing to disturb him by her pain–this symbols the moral quality of the woman. She was the fit mate of a great man, and it is pleasant to know that she was honored and appreciated.