England was in an extremely critical state at the beginning of 1779. A great discontent had spread throughout the land; the navy was disorganized, divided against itself by party politics; the army was consumed in inactivity on the American continent; the colonies were menaced by greedy enemies; trade was slowly dying, strangled by acts of piracy. The ministers had lost the confidence of Parliament and of the nation and were rapidly losing confidence in each other. Alone, in the cabinet, His Majesty was strong, though considered obstinate, battling for the rights of the people, the power of the government and the prerogatives of the British crown.
At Drury Lane, in deference to the King, who was an avowed admirer of Handel, the season was composed of oratorios. Most nights the Royal box was occupied either by His Majesty himself or a member of the Royal Family. Among the latter, George, Prince of Wales, secretly loathed serious music, though he tactfully forbore to say so and he hated going to the theatre when it became his turn to attend. Of late, H.R.H. had noticed a young man in a neighbouring box, always exquisitely dressed, who appeared to hold the same aversion to Herr Handel's oratorios as himself, since, after the first few bars, deep resounding snores would proceed from his direction. The young prince, curious at first, became interested in the youthful dandy and sent his tutor to investigate the matter. The latter returned in due course with the information that the person in question was Sir Percy Blakeney.
The young prince became excited. Surrounded as he was by the ridged etiquette of the Court, which did not allow him much latitude, he hoped that this unknown young exquisite would prove to be the congenial companion he had always wished for: the prospect of finding at last a friend whom he would choose for himself, and one who could not fail to find favour with his Royal father, caused him to overcome his childish diffidence and to summon this Percy Blakeney to the Royal box. On receipt of the command, Sir Percy, with a swift glance at the set of his cravat, followed the tutor and presented himself to the Prince, whose first question to him was:
"Sir Percy, since you so obviously dislike music, why do you attend the opera?"
With a low bow, Blakeney made answer:
"Your Royal Highness, I beg to make my excuses and hope that I did not disturb you. Begad, sir, I find Drury Lane the only comfortable place in which to sleep a few peaceful winks."
Whereupon H.R.H. whispered complete agreement and begged Sir Percy to keep him company at least for that performance.
From this rather fanciful encounter sprang an intimacy which, between the heir to the throne and Sir Percy, was to last a lifetime, a friendship which embraced not only these two, but subsequently their wives and families. At the time of this meeting the Prince of Wales was seventeen years old and Sir Percy the elder by two years.
Blakeney, in after life, sometimes referred to this meeting with the Prince. In a diary written some years later, he gives us a picture of the heir to the throne at that time and one or two intimate details of their friendship.
"He was an engaging youth in some ways. He was always very ill at ease when in the presence of strangers, and I remember concluding at the time that he was probably kept tightly on the curb. I fancy, however, that he must be a bit of a thorn in the side of his father, and, if I am any judge of character, he will not be a successful king. Although but seventeen when I first met him, he showed ugly tendencies even then -- tendencies which I would not have tolerated in any person in my own set. I suppose that a future king must be allowed some license. Begad, I thank my lucky stars I was not born a royal personage.
"I remember that night when he insisted on being taken to Warren's Den, a pretty low-down haunt in those days. He drank far too much for a young lad -- his head for liquor was always demmed weak -- and I was prickly with fear lest he betray himself to the girls who seemed to dote on him. In the end, I had to remove him forcibly ere the pace became too hot."
Judging from diaries and contemporary letters written by and to Sir Percy about this time, it seems pretty certain that he was drawn into Court circles and became a great favourite at St. James. In one or two letters there are distinct allusions to the young prince, looking up to him and following his advice on the subject of clothes and deportment.
They became inseparable companions during those early days of their intimacy and were seen in one another's company on every possible occasion; they rode together nearly every morning; they fenced and boxed nearly every afternoon, and, whenever feasible, forgathered in the evenings. And as the years passed, so did this friendship grow. It was not merely that the Prince enjoyed Percy's sallies and jokes, or that his clothes were the most beautiful in London; it went much deeper than that, right down into the core of the mind, a subtle sympathy which had flown between them that night when both had been so unutterably bored by the high-flown harmonies of Herr Handel and out of this, real understanding had been born.
And, indeed, this new influence in the young prince's life was considered by many to be the very best thing which could have happened, and was encouraged by the much harassed tutor, who was often hard put to it to keep the heir to the throne away from other rash and evil friendships. Sir Percy found himself in a new rôle and one which he had never studied, that of mentor to the prince, and he seems to have greatly enjoyed the position.
As was only to be expected, petty jealousies soon came nosing round this intimacy between Prince and commoner. Gossip, none too clean or kind, busied itself with their names. Those who, for some reason or another, had been refused entrance into Court circles, chose to deride Sir Percy Blakeney for accepting Royal favours; they chose to discern in his acceptance either personal ambition for higher honours or a mere bid for popularity. But neither the Prince nor Blakeney was perturbed by these scandalmongers, the majority of whom had their being on the fringe of society.
There was the usual flood of anonymous letters, one of which seemed to have caught Sir Percy's fancy, or tickled his sense of humour, for he kept it among his family papers.
"Sir," writes the nameless correspondent, "would it not be more honourable and more becoming in a gentleman of your exalted standing and wealth to earn the honours which you evidently so ardently covet by serving your country rather than by currying favour with a certain august young man? Doubtless, with your genius and personality, you can lead him down any path you choose, but the writer of this letter deems it is a disgraceful and shameless action to have initiated the said personage into a life of debauchery and licentiousness when you could have done so much good to your country by elevating his morals
"One who, at least, has at heart the good of his country and the dignity of the English Crown."
With the exception of this one letter -- more virulent than most -- Blakeney treated all anonymous letters with the contempt they deserved, consigned them to the wastepaper basket and their writers to the nethermost regions.
"Another batch of these demmed letters," he wrote in his journal on December 5th, 1779. "Zounds, people must be frightfully bored with life if that is the only subject they can think of to chatter about. Entre nous, H.R.H. needs no lessons in the art of debauchery."
It certainly sounds paradoxical that a boy like Percy Blakeney, then only nineteen years of age, should have counted the friendship of the equally young Prince of Wales for the purpose of social advancement. He needed none, for he was rich and had a large circle of friends, and what is more to the point, had ever since early boyhood, scorned both flatterers and sycophants, whilst his one ambition was to exact all the enjoyment out of life that his great wealth put within his reach.
That he contrived to realize this ambition is amply proved by the records of the next two years. The most exclusive circles in London and in Bath received him with open arms: within six months he was the acknowledged leader of fashion and of style. Sir Percy's coats were the talk of the town: his inanities were quoted by all his circle of friends, whist his foolish talk was aped by the gilded youth at Almack's and on the Mall. Society accepted him, petted him, made much of him, since his stories were the wittiest in London, his wines and parties the most sought after in England. In fact, he was looked upon as the ideal model for the fop and the philanderer.
One section of London society openly laughed at him and were wont to declare that Blakeney was the "demmedest ass that ever graced a drawing-room," whilst another kept his company solely because they wished to partake of his popularity and hoped that they would be noticed in the same room as the Prince of Wales. Others again were frankly puzzled by the young man, and could not make up their minds whether he was just a dandy without brains or a really clever man, masquerading for some particular purpose of his own as a fool.
This picture of Sir Percy Blakeney, painted by the gossip of the time, does not tell us much about him personally, nor does it enlighten us as to his real character. Actually, it is a mere sketch of the superficial man -- just that aspect of him which he chose to show to the public. It seems to have been the general opinion of his world about him at that time. But a closer study of the period tends to prove that that opinion was an entirely erroneous one.
As a matter of fact, there is a vivid description of Sir Percy Blakeney, written by a man of great culture who was a contemporary or his and who seems to have known him quite intimately. After a long discussion anent the various meeting-places of London society and their frequenters, in his Reminiscences and Personalities, Sir Edward Egmont devotes a chapter of his book to the London Clubs and in it describes his first meeting with Sir Percy Blakeney.
". . . It is wrong to imagine that all the young men who frequent the fashionable London Clubs are thus degenerate and debauched. There was one young man in particular whose personality was so forceful, so arresting, that, though it occurred over twenty years ago, I can remember my first meeting with him as vividly as if it were to-day. Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, was undeniably handsome -- always excepting that lazy bored look which seemed habitual with him, like the mask of an inane fop. Six foot three in his socks, as broad as a prize fighter in full trim, every inch of his figure seemed to radiate hidden strength. His forehead was low and square, crowned with thick fair hair, smooth and heavy: deep-set, somewhat lazy blue eyes beneath firmly marked, straight brows, and in those eyes there was an intensity behind this apparently lazy look, a latent passion which lit up his face whenever some subject dear to his heart was mentioned. But he seemed purposefully to subdue those flashes which revealed another nature, almost as if he were afraid that they would betray the secrets so jealously guarded by his habitual lazy look.
"Many scoffed at him; many laughed indulgently at him. There were some who ridiculed his rather obvious foreign manners. I was told over and over again that, though no one could call him dull, every one thought that he was hopelessly stupid.
"But I divined in this rich and pampered pet of society, a depth and an understanding far beyond that of those who judged him thus lightly. His exquisite clothes were but the outward sign of his great love of beauty in all its forms. I doubt whether Blakeney could have existed without beautiful things around him. And his love of beauty pervaded his everyday life and manifested itself in many forms; for are not charity and honour and chivalry forms of beauty? I quickly discerned the shrewd brain behind the inane speech; the moral courage behind the lazy look. I knew that before me stood a man who would soon astonish those who dubbed him foolish and who would soon play an important and leading part in the history of the world . . ."
Percy, of course, though still very young and under the nominal guardianship of Lord Fulford, could give rein to his every whim and caprice wherever these might lead him. Nor did his guardian greatly trouble himself to interfere. What did it matter? The Blakeney fortune was more than sufficient to meet its young owner's demands.
"If," said Lord Fulford, with an attempt at cynicism, "Percy intends to go to the devil, why the deuce shouldn't he, and in his own fashion? He is rich enough to buy the freehold of Hell and its contents an he will!"
Be it said, however, that Percy Blakeney was neither a debauchee nor a gambler, and that no one knew this better than his guardian and trustee.
It was about this time that the bulk of ancestral property was sold. Percy found that an obscure village, miles away from the beaten track, was somewhat in the nature of a white elephant and of no particular value to the pursuit of his enjoyment. He kept the house itself, for sentimental purposes probably, together with a few acres of land, but the rest of the property, which was rich in pasture and arable, was bought up by the local farmers, and with the proceeds of the sale, Percy bought a house on the river at Richmond.
Richmond House, as it was known at the time, and which Sir Percy rechristened Blakeney Manor, rapidly became the center of fashionable society. Soon, everybody who was anybody or considered themselves anybody, not only accepted Sir Percy's invitations to routs and parties, but greedily cadged for them whenever possible. Richmond became the rendezvous of the élite of society, and the Blakeney water parties, an invention of his own, became famous throughout the fashionable world; they drew the rank and fashion by chaise or coach to the small village by the river, there to enjoy the young exquisite's lavish hospitality.
The luxurious furnishings, the priceless pictures and rare books which he had collected or inherited, attracted the connoisseurs; his wines soon brought the gay sparks, young and old, round him like flies, and his horses won for him the esteem of the sporting fraternity. Added to which the fact that, perchance, the Prince of Wales or some other member of the Royal family might be encountered in this intimate and friendly atmosphere, set the seal of social approval on Blakeney's position.
But these favours and this popularity were not won gratuitously. Sir Percy had to pay the price of his extravagances; and a very big price it was too, for money in those days was more scarce than it is now. But he was always willing to pay. He liked to live en grand seigneur and was more than ready to indulge that fancy, though always within the limit of his fortune.
In these days, when it was more or less the fashion for gentlemen -- young ones especially -- to be up to their eyes in debt, Sir Percy Blakeney never owed any man anything. He hated contracting debts and never allowed a bill to become overdue. Dull he might be, stupid he often appeared to be, but in business transactions he was both scrupulous and methodical. Those who were wont to dub him an inane fop whose thoughts ran only on cards and clothes, might have paused sometimes to consider how it came about that the Blakeney millions, whatever their provenance, were not only efficiently administered, but had even of late considerably increased.
The existing accounts of Blakeney Manor show that Sir Percy must have spent a small fortune on his installation. Originally, the house, with its grounds sloping down to the river, had cost him nearly twenty thousand pounds to buy, but he had also poured money inside its four walls, decorating, renovating and furnishing the rooms in sumptuous style. Besides which, the actual upkeep of the place, even in those days of low wages and long hours, must have run away with an enormous amount of money.
The staff consisted, we are told, of eight gardeners, a dozen women servants, a French chef of international repute, with his attendant scullions and kitchen wenches, a highly paid butler and a number of lackeys. To these must be added Sir Percy's own valet, and valets and maids specially kept for the service of guests. Then there were the stables, where Sir Percy kept over twenty horses both for riding and driving, with a large contingent of coachmen and grooms.
His personal expenses were also on a lavish scale. His wardrobe was a marvel of elegance. These were the days of elaborate and at times sumptuous clothes; of velvet coats and brocaded waistcoats, of lace cravats and ruffles, of silk stockings and jeweled buckles. Sir Percy affected a style which might almost be called superfastidious, but at the same time he contrived to wear his clothes with so much grace and elegance that he never appeared effeminate or overdressed.
From this somewhat superficial sketch of Sir Percy Blakeney culled from scraps of contemporary writings, it must not be inferred that his interests in life were wholly given over to extravagance and the pursuit of pleasure. He was still very young at this time and chiefly endowed in sowing a crop of wild oats before settling down to the serious business of becoming a useful member of society. There is no doubt that even then, there were stirrings in his heart and mind all tending towards an ideal, as yet immature.
Roughly speaking, he already had vague aspirations towards something fine and beautiful, but he did not know what that something was likely to be. Already he had a real hatred for everything that was ugly or base, and above all cruel; the sound of a child crying, or an animal in pain, would rend his heart-strings and the sight of some bully ill-treating a small, defenseless creature would cause him to see red. His powerful fists were often in requisition on such occasions.
But though Sir Percy Blakeney was, as it were, the sun around which revolved the several constellations of London's jeunesse dorée, he did not forget his studious and staunch friend William Pitt. Many hours of relaxation did he spend in the latter's house, discussing politics and tilting at the reputation of party leaders.
Pitt had won a seat in the new Parliament which met in October, 1787. The King's speech was firm against the continuance of the American contest, and bitterly resentful of French interference in favour of the rebel colony. The debate on the address was carried on with acrimony on both sides of the house; tempers waxed hot and language often became immoderate. The ministry was obviously losing the confidence of the nation, whilst Fox, as usual, incurred the King's aversion by a series of insults levelled against what he called "The sacred shield of majesty interposed for the protection of a weak administration." He acknowledged the Sovereign's personal virtues, but declared that "his whole reign had been one continued series of disgrace and calamity."
It was at this juncture that Pitt and Sheridan were first heard in the House of Commons. Pitt's first speech in Parliament in support of Burke's bill for administration reform created a veritable sensation. Curiosity to hear whether the mantle of the great Chatham had descended on his son, soon yielded to unqualified admiration. The young orator stood up fearlessly amidst a circle of brilliant statesmen and spoke in a voice so harmonious and in language so well chosen and eloquent that both parties accorded him ungrudging praise.
Sir Percy Blakeney had a seat in the Stranger's Gallery, and there was not a man in the House to whom Pitt's instantaneous success gave as much joy and gratification as it did to his one-time schoolfellow.
That same year on the occasion of the King's birthday, there was a magnificent reception at Court; many were present who had never been honoured with an invitation before. Members of the Government, the House of Lords and the House of Commons were present in full force, and as the aristocratic element was predominant in the ministry, the brilliance of the scene surpassed that of all previous years.
Sir Percy Blakeney, we know, was present on that occasion. He had made up his mind to attend, because of his firm determination to be of service to his friend William Pitt by introducing him personally to His Majesty and to the Prince of Wales. The Prince in any case was always ready to fall in with his friend Blakeney's views and to accept his friend's friends as his own. There seems to have been no doubt whatever in the minds of such writers as Glynde and Egmont, that it was Blakeney's influence at Court that procured for Pitt the following year the Chancellorship of the Exchequer.
And Pitt was the first to recognize the true worth, the energy and the extraordinary powers of organization that lay behind the mask of inanity and foppishness, so persistently worn by Blakeney. He did indeed try to drag him into the meshes of a parliamentary career.
"Dear Percy," he wrote on August 10th, soon after his elevation to Cabinet rank, "I feel that your presence in the House on our Benches would strengthen the Government's position. The coalition between Fox and North was concluded yesterday, and announced to the House at a late hour last night. We all baited these old rivals as violently as we could, but North slept peacefully during our most offensive personal attacks. You could manage that side of our politics in a much more brilliant and worthy manner than any of us! The King is furious and is trying by every means in his power to break the partnership. Our only hope is that Fox, either through his ill-considered attacks on His Majesty or through impetuosity or imprudence, will one day go too far. I do not think that the coalition will have a long life.
"What an arena the Commons is. You really must join us if only as a target (this is Sheridan's idea), but better still as a battering-ram. At any rate think it over."
Less than a year later he had again occasion to congratulate himself on possessing a friend whose tact and discretion, in this instance, saved the Cabinet from a serious embarrassment -- one, in fact, which very nearly brought about the wholesale resignation of the ministry and probably the dissolution of Parliament.
"Now my dear friend," Pitt wrote on this occasion to Sir Percy Blakeney, "I am to beg a favour of you. The King has in mind the setting up of a separate establishment for H.R.H. I have just received communication to that effect. The King has declared most emphatically that no heavy burden shall thereby be laid on the nation, and, with this end in view, he is willing to give 50,000 sterling to the Prince out of his own civil list. All that he will ask from Parliament is a lump sum of 60,000 sterling for initial expenses. I happen to know, on the other hand, that the Cabinet wishes to vote an annual income of 100,000 sterling to H.R.H., but the King is violently opposed to this. Try to talk to H.R.H. and explain the situation to him so that both the King and Parliament may be satisfied."
Blakeney accepted the onerous task, promising to do his best, but well knowing he would not find it easy. To begin with, the Prince of Wales had lately very much angered the King by his constant association with Fox, who, in this instance as in most others, was at once in opposition to the Sovereign. Why the Cabinet should have been so eager to spend the nation's money at a moment when its finances were in a very parlous state it is difficult to imagine. But there it was.
His Majesty was willing to forgo 50,000 a year from his civil list in favour of his son, but the coalition ministry, which included several of the Prince's friends, wished to give him a regular settlement of 100,000 a year, the same as had been granted to Prince of Wales before this. And the King rejected this proposal most emphatically on the grounds that so large a sum would only bring a crowd of parasites fawning round the person of His Royal Highness, and that in any case the nation could not afford this expenditure right on top of a disastrous and costly war. And this rejection was couched in terms of such acrimony that the ministers threatened to resign in a body.
"For God's sake, Blakeney," Pitt now wrote to his friend, "influence H.R.H. into a moderate view and entreat him to obey the King's discretion. Otherwise there will be a change of ministry, a proceeding which would be most injurious to us all at the present moment. Our time has not yet come."
The affair in the end passed off better than most people expected. The Cabinet's somewhat extravagant offer was put down by half; the Government escaped defeat and the King was overjoyed at his son's more reasonable frame of mind. The upshot of it all was that Sir Percy Blakeney received his first honour at the hands of his king, his name appearing on the next honours list as a knight commander of the Order of the Bath.
"Dear William," he wrote to Pitt after the investiture, "I was only too happy to use any influence I may have in the pursuit of your plans, but you need not have gone to these lengths of making a public exhibition of me. Damn it, you ought to know by now how I should hate any reward for the small service I may have rendered you. You were a sly fox to get His Majesty to lay his sword across my shoulders. I should not have thought you capable of such a treasonable act towards a friend. But beware! I'll have my revenge on you some day!"
But if Blakeney imagined that, after these strenuous exertions, he would be allowed to dream away his time at Blakeney Manor and sink back into his lazy and indolent life, he was vastly mistaken. Pitt was now Prime Minister of England, and thereafter Percy was given no peace. From then on, he was bombarded by his friend with entreaties to stand for Parliament, and to his utter astonishment, Bathurst and the happy Harrow band added their voices to that of Pitt. He was offered what was practically a safe seat. Unwillingly, yet pushed by some vague desire to serve the country which he loved with an intense if secret ardor, he acceded to these "demmed monstrous" demands and anon found himself a Member of the House of Commons.
His first sensation was one of hot anger against those who had pushed him into it; faced by the awful solemnity of that august assembly, and, in the presence of that gathering of brilliant and cunning brains versed in the art of politics, he felt comparatively, nay, hopelessly out of his element.
His entrance was greeted with derision. Those in the House who knew him -- and they were mostly members of the Opposition -- hooted and poked fun at the dandy from Richmond. Cries such as "straight from the Royal nursery," "the dissolute member from Richmond Fair," and so on were shouted from all sides. But Pitt had risen, and, as he led his friend to a seat immediately behind the Government benches, a hush fell upon the assembly. This signal act of Pitt's was more eloquent than any sharp-witted give. Amidst the silence that ensued, Sir Percy settled himself down comfortably, stretched out his long legs and surveyed the House through his spy glass. The scrutiny was ironical and the lazy blue eyes gleamed with impish malice. Leaning over Pitt's shoulder, he remarked, half-audibly and with an affected drawl:
"Begad, but I've never encountered such a set of ugly mugs collected in one place before."
And his inane laugh went echoing for the first time round the solemn confines of the House.
Blakeney's sojourn in Parliament, however, was not of long duration. The official reports go to prove that he did not take an active part in the acrimonious debates that were so prevalent at the time, nor did he seemingly show any marked talent for oratory. Pitt, on the other hand, often declared that, to have Blakeney close to one during any decisive debate, amply compensated for lack of brilliant rhetoric on his part. His witty remarks or quaint sallies usually timed to perfection and his frequent bursts of laughter when a scathing attack had been launched against his friends were worth many votes at division time. His intimate knowledge of continental affairs was of great value to the Cabinet whenever questions on the Government's foreign policy were on the paper.
Pitt attempted in vain to cajole him into accepting a minor office in the Cabinet, but to this suggestion Blakeney opposed an adamantine refusal.
"Zounds, man! You cannot expect me to talk on abstruse politics! Think of the damned mess I would make of it all!"
He made one or two speeches in support of the Government policy, mostly in answer to the spiteful attacks initiated by Fox. These speeches opened the eyes of many, both enemies and friends, to his undoubted ability if only he would take the trouble to exert it. One speech in particular is worthy of record for it caused the opposition to writhe, so skillfully did he find the chinks in its armour and pierce it with withering ridicule.
"Maître corbeau sur un arbe perché . . ." he began, and then inveighed against the "renard" and that animal's sly method of obtaining the succulent fruits of office. His travels abroad, he said, forced him into the position of warning the House against France. He told them of the discontent against Louis XVI. He advised them to beware of France, and predicted that, before the century was out, England would have to protect her vast possessions from a greedy and unscrupulous revolutionary Government. He finished his speech by saying that his party was being cajoled into opening its beak too wide, and that, if they were not careful, le renard would run off with the cheese.
The report of this speech soon spread through the Clubs and amongst the haunts of the gilded youth. At Almack's Blakeney was fêted by his cronies, and the chaff was not always good natured. But he took no notice. Already after nine months of politics, he was beginning to regret his precipitate decision to enter Parliament. Indeed, the notion of a political career for Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., K.C.B., was, from the onset, an anomalous one. For he was not a cadger after office or honours; in fact, his feelings in such matters were very much the reverse of self-seeking. The very idea of being pushed into the limelight was thoroughly distasteful to him and, as time went on, this desire to hide his light under the proverbial bushel grew into positive fanaticism. And now that he had entered the political arena and been able to judge for himself of all the corruption, the dishonesty, the double-dealing that was not only condoned, but openly flaunted, he realized how thoroughly out of place amongst so much moral turpitude was any kind of ideal or aspiration towards political integrity. He saw high offices, votes and honours bought and bartered and sold to the highest bidder, and his very soul revolted at the sight. Much as he admired and esteemed his friend Pitt, who, he knew, was of an unshakable honesty, he could not disguise his rancor before him when he inveighed against party politics.
"Damn it," he said to his intimate friend Ffoulkes, "to think that we are governed by a band of thieves and blackmailers. Poor old England! Heaven guard her!"
Nor would he admit the excuse that, after all, since no one knew what went on behind the scenes, it did not matter whether members of the Government thieved and bribed, were honest or corrupt, since it did not seem to injure the country, which specious argument would throw Sir Percy Blakeney into a greater fury than before.
But what chiefly influenced him in his decision to abandon a political career was his horror of injustice and his immense sympathy for the under dog. His attempts, during his time in Parliament, to alleviate the suffering of the poor and the submerged were either met with rank hostility, or at best received with complete indifference. Time and again he threw himself with ardor into debates upon the existing social system and the problems of unemployment and relief which confronted the people of England, but his eloquent appeals were doomed to failure from the outset and generally strangled at their first inception. The ministers were far too busy with their own quarrels and his fellow members too jealous of their own political future to trouble about such trifles as the starving poor.
For once, that magnetic personality of his had failed to attract. And, indeed, Blakeney felt but little incentive to exert his powers to the full; he was soon sickened by the growing hostility shown towards the measures he tried to introduce. He was humiliated by his inability to influence his fellow members to divert their thoughts from their own petty jealousies. After two years of patient striving to gain some amelioration in the Poor Laws, he realized that he was wasting precious time and breath on an ungrateful task. His undoubted talents had no chance of expansion in the House; it did not seem to require courage, ideals or selflessness to gain honours and high position, but only backstairs intrigue and bribery.
A particularly acrimonious debate, initiated by him for the purpose of introducing a new law in connection with outdoor relief, set the seal upon his purpose.
Close to Richmond there was a slum area where the homeless poor and outcasts of society collected. These wretched people were driven from pillar to post by the police, and for the most part ended their lives in gaol. Blakeney wished to alleviate their extreme distress, but found to his consternation that he could do nothing on a comprehensive scale without the sanction of Parliament; even though he himself was willing to provide the money for an institute where they could be fed and sheltered. He set down on the motion paper a proposal for the amendment of the law then in force. He castigated with no uncertain tongue a Government who allowed such a state of affairs to continue. He demanded of them certain grants of money towards the rescue of these unfortunates. The rest, he declared, would be subscribed by private individuals.
"For God's sake, stop that man Blakeney," exclaimed Fox. "We require the time and the money for more important work than soup-kitchens. How the devil can we govern this land with such fellows in Parliament? This House is not a philanthropic institution!"
"Unless you help such poor miserable beings now, you won't have any country to govern," shouted Blakeney furiously. "Wait until the revolution is upon us."
He was so disheartened and so disgusted at his failure that that very night he applied for the Chiltern Hundreds.
"Though your motives, my dearest of friends," he wrote to Pitt, "are, in my eyes, both noble and just, those of some of your followers are demmed disreputable. Therefore, since I cannot countenance their ways, I hope that you will accept my retirement in the spirit in which it is offered and that you will not take it amiss or feel that I am a backslider. I hope to see you next Monday week at Blakeney Manor for dinner. H.R.H. will be there, and he wants to talk to you."
That Sir Percy could have satisfied the highest ambitions of the seeker after honours cannot be denied, for, after his retirement from the House, and before the next general election, Pitt tried to force a peerage upon him, the King having decided to strengthen the Government in the Lords by creating five new peers. But Sir Percy firmly refused:
"My dear, dear William,
"Have you completely lost your sense of humour? I am vastly honoured that you should deem me a worthy subject to decorate that ornate chamber, and I daresay that it is a good place wherein to sleep off one's midday bottle of port. But Lord Blakeney of Blakeney -- damme, the joke is too good a one, and I could not support a coronet on my head. Please accept the humble apologies of your friend. The best of wishes for a handsome majority at the elections and my best wishes for your future, which I shall follow with loving interest. In the meantime, do not entirely forget your prize black sheep who is always at your service.
"Percy."
And that was the end of Sir Percy Blakeney's two years' political career.
There are several version of what became known in Sir Percy Blakeney's set as the Mary de Courcy episode. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who was his most intimate friend, strenuously denied that Percy was even in love with her; but others would have it that, at any rate, at first, it was a case of la grand passion.
The episode occurred in 1788, and Mary de Courcy, a pretty blonde with languishing eyes and a rosebud mouth, was its heroine. The truth is that fashionable London did wake one morning, rub its eyes and stare when it discovered -- or thought it discovered -- that the dandy who had the reputation of being the sleepiest, dullest, most British Britisher who had ever set a pretty woman yawning, had seemingly fallen in love at last. Yet the fact remained. Sir Percy, so 'twas said, was in love with a lady of noble birth; at any rate, he was paying court to her with as much earnestness as his laziness permitted.
The Honourable Mary de Courcy, though inclined to laugh at his intentions, was secretly flattered by the honour conferred on her by the acknowledged leader of fashion and had soon made up her ineffectual mind to win this pearl of great price in the matrimonial market. To become Lady Blakeney should prove no difficult task, she thought: and the exalted position ought to be a sinecure with such an easy-going man as Sir Percy.
Anyway, it was worth relinquishing girlish illusions in order to become the wife of one of the richest men in England, even though he did not display the fervour of an ardent lover. But, as her girl friends remarked, Blakeney was not the type of man to write odes to his mistresses' eyebrows or to fall on his knees in an ecstasy of passion. They reckoned that Mary could easily forgo the transports of love for the privilege of being admitted into the intimate Royal circle and the right to spend a fortune on dress if she chose. The pros so outweighed the cons that the girl's head was completely turned by Blakeney's somewhat halting proposal of marriage, and it seemed nothing more was needed but a fashionable wedding.
Now, according to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who was the only man likely to know for certain, Sir Percy's views on the subject were not very clear. To his best friend he confided the fact that he did not know what disease he had caught and supposed that he was just mad like all the Blakeneys. He did not -- naturally, perhaps -- put his feelings on record in his diary, but Sir Andrew did subsequently declare openly that the whole thing amounted to this: Blakeney had realized that marriage for him was something of a duty. A man in his position was under obligation to marry in order to carry on the title and to have a woman presiding over his household.
Besides, he was thoroughly tired of the match-making dowagers who buzzed around him like flies, bombarding him with their wiles and their often unattractive daughters. Far better, he thought, to get oneself tied to some ineffectual maiden and be, thereafter, totally free to do as one liked. And Mary de Courcy seemed to fit the case exactly. She was exceedingly pretty; he was definitely attracted to her, liked her, in fact, well enough, and, as far as he knew, she seemed to reciprocate his feelings such as they were.
Unfortunately for her, Mary prattled.
When her avowed intentions stood revealed and Sir Percy was allowed a glimpse into her mean, petty little soul, he was so disgusted that she was quite taken aback, not to say frightened, by his sudden show of anger. There ensued a terrible scene during which neither kept their tempers or concealed their hidden thoughts. The lady was more furious at losing the prize than at the bitter truths hurled at her. Sir Percy was not only angry, he was touched to the quick, his pride was reduced to dust, by this chit of a girl -- that Blakeney pride which had so often before caused misunderstandings between him and his friends.
Mary raged when it dawned upon her at last that this was no lover's quarrel which could be patched up with kisses, but was indeed the final blow to her cherished dreams of position and wealth. Sir Percy withdrew into his shell, a sadder but wiser man, realizing for the first time, that wealth had been the main attraction for Mary, and not girlish affection for himself. He left the interview with bitterness in his heart and outwardly more cynical and flippant than before. But later on, when the fire of his wrath had died down and left his brain clear of passionate anger, he realized what a lucky escape he had had. Indeed he was, in his heart of hearts, thankful that he had discovered Mary's secret thoughts in good time, for already, almost unknown to himself, he had tired of her silly little ways and childish affectations.
After the engagement was broken off, honour demanded that Sir Percy should efface himself, go abroad, in fact, until such time as the scandal had blown over and the lady was safely married to some other man.