One evening we had a large ball, to which the town of Stamford and the surrounding neighbourhood had been invited, and I was much amused by overhearing a conversation between two Stamfordians: “Do you know which is Dizzy?” “Well, naturally, because I see _Punch_ every week.” For even at that remote period, the peculiar features and singular appearance of the future Lord Beaconsfield had already become familiar to the world through the cartoons of our London _Figaro_. There was scarcely ever a man who changed so little in aspect; his face grew thinner, his youthful locks became sparse and tinged with grey in later years, but he was the same man grown older, and a portrait of him between the ages of twenty and thirty might easily be recognised at fifty or sixty. He was, indeed, a godsend to the portrait-painter, or caricaturist, and I think it speaks much to his credit that he always gazed on his own effigy in _Punch_ or elsewhere, however comic it might be, with intense and unalloyed amusement. In those days, and in the presence of his Chief, as we used to call Lord Derby, Dizzy did not take so prominent a part in social conversation as he naturally did in after years; but there was something which bespoke concentrated power and resolute ambition, at least to the readers of physiognomy. His demeanour towards his wife was through life a theme of commendation amongst those who knew him little or well. The delicate tact with which he warded off the occasional sallies that her eccentricities provoked, and the manner in which he, so to speak, shielded her from ridicule, were conspicuous by their affectionate diplomacy. Mrs Disraeli, the farmer’s pretty daughter and the widow of a millionaire, was a hero-worshipper by profession, and laid herself and her dowry at the feet of the handsome and talented Benjamin. She was a happy woman, a happy wife, and a happy member of Society, which she enjoyed to the full. To few people could the epithet _naïve_ be better applied. She rather lent herself to than resented the laugh which her unexpected observations would often raise. To me she was especially amiable, and I confess to having found untold amusement in her conversation. At the time of which I am speaking, the interior of Burghley presented an appearance of more than usual brilliancy. The spacious rooms, whose walls were decorated by the paintings of old Italian masters, profusely lighted, the groups of gaily-dressed and richly-jewelled ladies, enlivened by a sprinkling of Knights of the Bath and Garter, and last, but not least, as far as the pageant went, the numbers of male attendants in the traditional garb of the retainers of the house of Cecil, in their sky-blue livery, resplendent with frogs and aiguillettes of silver. The whole scene was calculated to impress the spectator as one of no common splendour.