CHAPTER II.


The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn, Coningsby arrived at
Beaumanoir. It was several years since he had visited the family of his
friend, who were indeed also his kin; and in his boyish days had often
proved that they were not unmindful of the affinity. This was a visit that
had been long counted on, long promised, and which a variety of
circumstances had hitherto prevented. It was to have been made by the
schoolboy; it was to be fulfilled by the man. For no less a character
could Coningsby under any circumstances now consent to claim, since he was
closely verging to the completion of his nineteenth year; and it appeared
manifest that if it were his destiny to do anything great, he had but few
years to wait before the full development of his power. Visions of Gastons
de Foix and Maurices of Saxony, statesmen giving up cricket to govern
nations, beardless Jesuits plunged in profound abstraction in omnipotent
cabinets, haunted his fancy from the moment he had separated from his
mysterious and deeply interesting companion. To nurture his mind with
great thoughts had ever been Coningsby's inspiring habit. Was it also
destined that he should achieve the heroic?

There are some books, when we close them; one or two in the course of our
life, difficult as it may be to analyse or ascertain the cause; our minds
seem to have made a great leap. A thousand obscure things receive light; a
multitude of indefinite feelings are determined. Our intellect grasps and
grapples with all subjects with a capacity, a flexibility, and a vigour,
before unknown to us. It masters questions hitherto perplexing, which are
not even touched or referred to in the volume just closed. What is this