tragical in the depth and stir of its emotions. Even the imagination of
the boy could not be insensible to its materials; and Coningsby was
picturing to himself a beneficent and venerable gentleman pressing to his
breast an agitated youth, when his reverie was broken by the carriage
stopping before the gates of Monmouth House.

The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss, and the carriage rolled into a
huge court-yard. At its end Coningsby beheld a Palladian palace, with
wings and colonnades encircling the court.

A double flight of steps led into a circular and marble hall, adorned with
colossal busts of the Caesars; the staircase in fresco by Sir James
Thornhill, breathed with the loves and wars of gods and heroes. It led
into a vestibule, painted in arabesques, hung with Venetian girandoles,
and looking into gardens. Opening a door in this chamber, and proceeding
some little way down a corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion arrived at
the base of a private staircase. Ascending a few steps, they reached a
landing-place hung with tapestry. Drawing this aside, Mr. Rigby opened a
door, and ushered Coningsby through an ante-chamber into a small saloon,
of beautiful proportions, and furnished in a brilliant and delicate taste.

'You will find more to amuse you here than where you were before,' said
Mr. Rigby, 'and I shall not be nearly so long absent.' So saying, he
entered into an inner apartment.

The walls of the saloon, which were covered with light blue satin, held,
in silver panels, portraits of beautiful women, painted by Boucher.
Couches and easy chairs of every shape invited in every quarter to
luxurious repose; while amusement was afforded by tables covered with
caricatures, French novels, and endless miniatures of foreign dancers,