yield. Many acts of the Duke of Wellington, in the course of his
political career, that have called forth unlimited censure, have been
based upon calculations which only so well-tutored and so well-stored a
mind could have made.

It is an intellectual treat of the highest order to see the Duke of
Wellington's demeanour in the House of Lords. It is essentially
different from that of every other man there. He is almost the only
unfettered man in the house. Others are fettered by obstacles which they
create for themselves, in various ways, by the too eager pursuit of
personal or party objects. But the Duke of Wellington's high reputation
and standing place him above all such considerations. He can afford to
speak the truth, and he does speak it on all occasions fearlessly. While
other speakers, on either side of the house, have been wasting their
powers in fruitless eloquence (mere personal display), or in perverting
the truth for the purpose, either of unfair attack or unfair defence,
the Duke of Wellington has appeared to be paying not the slightest
attention to the proceedings. He has sat absorbed in thought, or at
least in seeming indifference. You would almost suppose that, overcome
by fatigue, or indisposition, he was sleeping, so perfectly motionless
and silent is he, reclining, with folded arms, his legs stretched out
to their full length, and his hat over his brow. The question has been
discussed, argued, disputed upon for hours. No result seems to have been
come to, and you are as ignorant of the object and scope of the measure
as when the debate began; nor have you any clear idea what will become
of the bill.

At length, the Duke of Wellington rises, advances abruptly to the table,
wraps the tails of his coat, like a dressing-gown, over his legs, and
plunges at once _in medias res_. There is an undivided attention while