the newspapers continued to announce the departures of new visitors to the duke of st. james, and to dilate upon the protracted and princely festivity of pen bron-nock. but while thousands were envying his lot, and hundreds aspiring to share it, what indeed was the condition of our hero?
a month or two had rolled on and if he had not absolutely tasted enjoyment, at least he had thrown off reflection; but as the autumn wore away, and as each day he derived less diversion or distraction from the repetition of the same routine, carried on by different actors, he could no longer control feelings which would be predominant, and those feelings were not such as perhaps might have been expected from one who was receiving the homage of an admiring world. in a word, the duke of st. james was the most miserable wretch that ever lived.
‘where is this to end?’ he asked himself. ‘is this year to close, to bring only a repetition of the past? well, i have had it all, and what is it? my restless feelings are at last laid, my indefinite appetites are at length exhausted. i have known this mighty world, and where am i? once, all prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, the tremulous and panting lust with which i sighed for it. have i been deceived? have i been disappointed? is it different from what i expected? has it fallen short of my fancy? has the dexterity of my musings deserted me? have i under-acted the hero of my reveries? have i, in short, mismanaged my début? have i blundered? no, no, no! far, far has it gone beyond even my imagination, and my life has, if no other, realised its ideas!
‘who laughs at me? who does not burn incense before my shrine? what appetite have i not gratified? what gratification has proved bitter? my vanity! has it been, for an instant, mortified? am i not acknowledged the most brilliant hero of the most brilliant society in europe? intense as is my self-love, has it not been gorged? luxury and splendour were my youthful dreams, and have i not realised the very romance of indulgence and magnificence? my career has been one long triumph. my palaces, and my gardens, and my jewels, my dress, my furniture, my equipages, my horses, and my festivals, these used to occupy my meditations, when i could only meditate; and have my determinations proved a delusion? ask the admiring world.
‘and now for the great point to which all this was to tend, which all this was to fascinate and subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight, to honour. woman! oh! when i first dared, among the fields of eton, to dwell upon the soft yet agitating fancy, that some day my existence might perhaps be rendered more intense, by the admiration of these maddening but then mysterious creatures; could, could i have dreamt of what has happened? is not this the very point in which my career has most out-topped my lofty hopes?
‘i have read, and sometimes heard, of satiety. it must then be satiety that i feel; for i do feel more like a doomed man, than a young noble full of blood and youth. and yet, satiety; it is a word. what then? a word is breath, and am i wiser? satiety! satiety! satiety! oh! give me happiness! oh! give me love!
‘ay! there it is, i feel it now. too well i feel that happiness must spring from purer fountains than self-love. we are not born merely for ourselves, and they who, full of pride, make the trial, as i have done, and think that the world is made for them, and not for mankind, must come to as bitter results, perhaps as bitter a fate; for, by heavens! i am half tempted at this moment to fling myself from off this cliff, and so end all.
‘why should i live? for virtue, and for duty; to compensate for all my folly, and to achieve some slight good end with my abused and unparalleled means. ay! it is all vastly rational, and vastly sublime, but it is too late. i feel the exertion above me. i am a lost man.
‘we cannot work without a purpose and an aim. i had mine, although it was a false one, and i succeeded. had i one now i might succeed again, but my heart is a dull void. and caroline, that gentle girl, will not give me what i want; and to offer her but half a heart may break hers, and i would not bruise that delicate bosom to save my dukedom. those sad, silly parents of hers have already done mischief enough; but i will see darrell, and will at least arrange that. i like him, and will make him my friend for her sake. god! god! why am i not loved! a word from her, and all would change. i feel a something in me which could put all right. i have the will, and she could give the power.
‘now see what a farce life is! i shall go on, heaven knows how! i cannot live long. men like me soon bloom and fade. what i may come to, i dread to think. there is a dangerous facility in my temper; i know it well, for i know more of myself than people think; there is a dangerous facility which, with may dacre, might be the best guaranty of virtue; but with all others, for all others are at the best weak things, will as certainly render me despicable, perhaps degraded. i hear the busy devil whispering even now. it is my demon. now, i say, see what a farce life is! i shall die like a dog, as i have lived like a fool; and then my epitaph will be in everybody’s mouth. here are the consequences of self-indulgence: here is a fellow, forsooth, who thought only of the gratification of his vile appetites; and by the living heaven, am i not standing here among my hereditary rocks, and sighing to the ocean, to be virtuous!
‘she knew me well, she read me in a minute, and spoke more truth at that last meeting than is in a thousand sermons. it is out of our power to redeem ourselves. our whole existence is a false, foul state, totally inimical to love and purity, and domestic gentleness, and calm delight. yet are we envied! oh! could these fools see us at any other time except surrounded by our glitter, and hear of us at any other moment save in the first bloom of youth, which is, even then, often wasted; could they but mark our manhood, and view our hollow marriages, and disappointed passions; could they but see the traitors that we have for sons, the daughters that own no duty; could they but watch us even to our grave, tottering after some fresh bauble, some vain delusion, which, to the last, we hope may prove a substitute for what we have never found through life, a contented mind, they would do something else but envy us.
‘but i stand prating when i am wanted. i must home. home! o sacred word! and then comes night! horrible night! horrible day! it seems to me i am upon the eve of some monstrous folly, too ridiculous to be a crime, and yet as fatal. i have half a mind to go and marry the bird of paradise, out of pure pique with myself, and with the world.’
