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 FITZGEORGE.
 
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 " We all went out together, 
 To see what we could see."
 
 FITZGEORGE 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 
 Youth without honour, age without respect. 
 
 Byron's Marino Faliero. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PUBLISHED BY EFFINGHAM WILSON, 
 
 ROYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 1832.
 
 C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE. STRAND.
 
 9X3 
 
 Sfirtf 
 
 ii 
 
 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 After three hours spent at the toilet the Hon- 
 ourable Augustus Fitzgeorge took his station in 
 the drawing-room to receive his expected guests. 
 From many a long and lofty mirror was that 
 form reflected which he most of all admired, 
 which was the centre of his thoughts and the 
 pride of his life. There many an attitude was 
 studied, many a smile was practised, and many 
 a bow rehearsed. The doors were thrown open, 
 and the Honourable Lionel Leppard was an- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 nounced. A brow of thought and a lip of smiles 
 were the bearing of Lionel, alike prepared for 
 fun or philosophy. 
 
 " This is as it should be/' exclaimed Fitz- 
 george, pressing the hand of Leppard, with a 
 studied earnestness, till the guest thought his 
 host as sincere as himself; " the first in my 
 estimation to be the first in keeping his ap- 
 pointment." 
 
 " Fitzgeorge, I give you joy on coming into 
 life and liberty; now you are at liberty to show 
 the world what life is." 
 
 " Here comes one," said Fitzgeorge, " who 
 needs not to be told what life is." 
 
 The Honourable Drury Borrowman was an- 
 nounced. A cordial pressure of the hand, and 
 a smile of courtly grace, seemed to say that his 
 presence was peculiarly acceptable. " Leppard 
 is telling me that I must show the world what 
 life is." 
 
 " Then," said Borrowman, " you will show 
 the world that life is a farce.'' 1
 
 FITZGEORGE. 3 
 
 " That is your serious opinion ? " 
 
 " Pardon me, but I am serious in nothing, 
 save in congratulating you on being liberated 
 from leadi no-strings and shoulders of mutton." 
 
 "And I," said Fitzgeorge, taking his two 
 friends by the hand, " am never more serious 
 than when I congratulate myself on possessing 
 two such valuable and valued friends as Leppard 
 and Borrowman." 
 
 The eyes of Fitzgeorge glanced with gratified 
 pride around the splendid apartment which had 
 been furnished, finished and decorated under 
 his own immediate, minute, and incessant atten- 
 tion. Every article of use and of ornament had 
 not been merely chosen by himself, but its pat- 
 tern had* been devised by his own exuberant 
 taste. His own individual genius had presided 
 over the industry and skill of the workmen: 
 there was not a single moulding that was not 
 familiar to his eye and imagination, for he had 
 devised or improved their form. It was his 
 pride to rejoice in the superb singularity of his 
 b2
 
 4 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 taste, and to stand alone as the mark and model 
 of exterior elegance. His eye was everywhere, 
 and his thoughts were constantly filled with 
 images of beauty; the activity of his mind was 
 occupied with devices of decoration and antici- 
 pations of luxury and homage. No man perhaps 
 ever practised less self-deception than he did 
 in matters of this nature, and in the general de- 
 sign and promise of life ; — for he hesitated not to 
 avow it to himself that his design and hope were 
 to enjoy the luxuries and elegances of life to 
 their utmost attainable extent. He did not for 
 a moment pretend, either to himself or to any one 
 else, that he had any other ambition than to 
 enjoy the fulness of luxurious indulgence. 
 
 Though but a young man just come of age> 
 yet being of a high and ancient family, of great 
 expectations, and of political consequence and 
 influence, his friends were liberal in their homage 
 and lavish in their compliments. The dexterity 
 with which they could nourish vanity with the 
 fumes of flattery — the grace with which they
 
 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 could gild over the grossness of sensuality — 
 the lightness with which they could laugh at the 
 vulgar restrictions, which bind inferior spirits, 
 rendered their society most acceptable to a 
 youth who had just burst the bondage of mi- 
 nority, and who felt that he had nothing to do 
 in life but to enjoy it. For the strictness of 
 early discipline, and the abstemiousness which 
 had been forced upon him in a state of pu- 
 pilage, gave a stimulus to the appetite for indul- 
 gence, and awakened the wanton pruriency of 
 imagination to devise all forms of luxury. 
 
 He was now beginning to realize the dreams 
 of his minority. What had been to him castles 
 in the air were coming to have a local habitation 
 and a name. This was the first party which 
 he had entertained in a mansion, that he could 
 call his own ; and this party consisted of many 
 others than the two above named; but they 
 were all choice spirits, all in love with them- 
 selves, and joying in any acquisition to their 
 own equivocal sense of their importance, and it
 
 6 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 was indeed an addition to their importance that 
 they shared the smiles of the gay and graceful 
 Fitzgeorge. There sat at his table wits, states- 
 men, and philosophers, men of thought and 
 men of thoughtlessness ; it was a day of glad- 
 ness to Fitzgeorge, for it was a day of promise, 
 a bright harbinger of a brilliant and glorious 
 life. Every thing was as it should be; the 
 duties of the toilet had been supereminently 
 successful, the whole force of culinary science 
 had been developed, and the ars celare artem 
 had been carried to its utmost conceivable per- 
 fection. The banqueting-room, though not so 
 vast in its dimensions or so superb in its ap- 
 pointments as the halls of Sardanapalus or 
 Belshazzar, was not deficient in such deco- 
 rations as wealth could purchase, or as an ac- 
 tive imagination could devise. The genius of 
 Fitzgeorge, which reached to every part of his 
 mansion, and devised every form of its deco- 
 ration and accommodation, had been not inac- 
 tive in the hall of feasting. Pleased was the
 
 FITZGEORGE. 7 
 
 luxurious young man to see the dazzled eyes 
 of his admiring guests diverted and distracted 
 between the table and the apartment. Happy 
 was he to see the well-trained servants, quick 
 as light and silent as shadows, move about 
 their ministrations. Both he and his guests 
 endeavoured to look as though there w r as 
 nothing extraordinary in the apartment or the 
 entertainment; but it was not easy to conceal 
 the admiration of the eye, however studiously 
 silent the tongue might be; and Fitzgeorge 
 knew that on the morrow his fame would be 
 spread, that fame in which he most delighted. 
 
 One bad feeling which sometimes subsists be- 
 tween the entertainer and the entertained had 
 no place at this meeting, there was no feeling 
 of jealous rivalry. The guests were not in a 
 situation to vie in splendour with their host 
 Augustus Fitzgeorge had it in his power to 
 select as companions and intimates the highest 
 of the high, who would have been proud of his 
 acquaintance, but he knew that they were also
 
 8 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 proud of themselves, and he preferred such as 
 would sensibly feel the honour of his conde- 
 scension, such as would repay condescension by 
 flattery. As he was in his own rank high and 
 enviably distinguished, he was under no neces- 
 sity of seeking to derive eclat from the rank or 
 opulence of those with whom he associated ; he 
 selected his companions therefore from among 
 those who met his humour; who were distin- 
 guished for the brilliancy of their wit, the pro- 
 fundity of their talents, or the variety of their 
 acquisitions ; who would be agreeable at the 
 festive board, and who with all the visible ease 
 of acquaintanceship and familiarity could dex- 
 terously blend an essential servility, moral and 
 political. Being of age and past the restraints 
 of discipline, he had no wish to continue under 
 a voluntary vassalage, by placing around him- 
 self severe moralists, or men of formal, puri- 
 tanical habits. His very incompetence to govern 
 himself made him the more eager to be his own 
 master. The direction of his conduct being put
 
 TITZGEORGE. V 
 
 into his own hands, he felt disposed to keep it 
 there irresponsibly ; for he thought, not unrea- 
 sonably, that when an individual is arrived at 
 years of discretion, there is little moral use, 
 though often much annoyance, in the reproofs 
 and censures to which the mind gives no echo. 
 He placed around him therefore those from 
 whom nothing of this kind was to be expected, 
 and his style of intercourse with them was such 
 as to admit of no farther familiarity than that 
 which he was pleased to allow ; he guided them 
 with the reins of condescension, but he had a 
 quick eye and a firm hand on the curb of arro- 
 gance, by which he prevented familiarity from 
 transgressing into an unpleasant impertinence, 
 and they knew well enough on what terms they 
 associated with him. They were happy to bask 
 in the sunshine of his prosperity, and to rejoice 
 in the light of his countenance. From him they 
 were prepared to take the tone of their morals, 
 their politics, their religion ; — or if they should 
 presume to differ from him, it would be merely 
 b3
 
 10 TITZGEORGE. 
 
 to sharpen their wits by discussion, not to con- 
 vince the mind by reasoning. 
 
 It was not, therefore, with any view of di- 
 rectly or indirectly reproving the epicurean pro- 
 pensities of his host, that Borrowman, whose 
 eyes twinkled with ecstacy over a glass of claret, 
 said, " Why is all the world so unanimous in 
 praise of temperance, and scarcely one solitary 
 logician has a single word to say in praise of 
 luxury?'' 
 
 " Because," replied Fitzgeorge, " luxury 
 speaks for itself." 
 
 " But why is luxury reprobated V 
 
 " It is only reprobated when it is inacces- 
 sible." 
 
 " Not only, nor always so," said Leppard; 
 
 11 there have been declaimers against luxury, 
 who have had the means of enjoying it." 
 
 " They have been proud," said Borrowman, 
 " of the ingenuity with which they could make 
 the worse appear the better cause. Or perhaps 
 they have been stoics in the school and epi-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 11 
 
 cureans at the table ; for it is no bad policy to 
 persuade those who are without luxuries that 
 indulgence is undesirable. The happiest con- 
 trivance of all is to represent luxury as a 
 sin." 
 
 " Methinks I see you, Borrownian," replied 
 Fitzgeorge, " delivering a homily against good 
 living." 
 
 " Do you think I could not keep my counte- 
 nance?" 
 
 " I think you could not get rid of your coun- 
 tenance, which would tell mightily against your 
 theory and interfere with the sanctity of your 
 homily." 
 
 " Yet I have seen a well-fed dignitary, of no 
 mean circumference, prosingly haranguing on 
 the merits of contentment and starvation, while 
 his half-fed curate was sitting in the desk be- 
 low, yawning from the emptiness of his own 
 stomach and the rector's head." 
 
 " Such a scene would bear dramatizing,"
 
 12 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 answered Fitzgeorge, " were it not rather too 
 broad for farce." 
 
 " Not at all too broad for farce, or even for 
 serious comedy," said Leppard, " for they are 
 best qualified to impose upon others who have 
 not been imposed upon themselves." 
 
 " You think then that a man can speak best 
 in praise of temperance, who is not convinced 
 by his own arguments ?" 
 
 " They are the best logicians," replied Lep- 
 pard, " who can convince others by arguments 
 which do not convince themselves." 
 
 " But will not a man speak most effectually 
 on any topic when he himself is convinced of 
 the soundness of his cause and the truth of his 
 own theory ?" 
 
 " So far as passion is concerned a man may 
 speak more persuasively, but so far as logic is 
 concerned he will not speak more convincingly 
 for any confidence he may have in the sound- 
 ness and truth of his cause. For when an in-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 13 
 
 dividual is fully possessed with the idea of the 
 truth of a theory or the justness of a principle 
 he is not so aware of its weak points as one who 
 is not so convinced." 
 
 " For that reason, then," said Fitzgeorge, 
 "litigants intrust their defence more wisely to 
 other hands than their own." 
 
 " They do so: and an advocate can do the 
 best for his cause, when he is fully aware of its 
 weakness." 
 
 " My good friends," said Borrowman, starting 
 from a reverie, and filling his glass, " your whole 
 argument is not worth an argument ; the truth 
 lies in a nutshell ; our senses tell us that we like 
 what we like, and our reason tells us that we 
 like what we dislike." 
 
 " You are right," said Fitzgeorge, " and one 
 of the finest illustrations of your remark may be 
 found in Cicero's Tusculan Questions. Few 
 men have had a greater dread of death than he 
 had ; he died at last like a coursed hare, almost 
 with mere fright : — and yet he has written one of
 
 14 PITZGEOHGE. 
 
 the most ingenious arguments imaginable, to 
 prove that death is not an evil. I believe it is 
 the very first of the Tusculan Questions. So 
 far as reasoning goes, he has proved his point ; 
 but he convinces nobody, and most clearly he 
 did not convince himself." 
 
 " Might he not have written that disquisi- 
 tion/' asked Leppard, " to exhibit his ingenuity 
 in proving to others that which he did not be- 
 lieve himself?" 
 
 "What he might have done," replied Fitz- 
 george, " I cannot say ; but I am decidedly of 
 opinion that the whole argument, from begin- 
 ning to end, was but a vain endeavour to re- 
 concile himself to that which he knew to be 
 unavoidable. He whistled aloud to keep his 
 courage up. If you have ever read the dying- 
 speeches of criminals, you will find them almost 
 uniformly reconciled to death; but the recon- 
 ciling power has been despair. Cicero would 
 not have died to this hour, if he could have 
 helped himself."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 15 
 
 " You must acknowledge," said one of the 
 party, addressing himself to Fitzgeorge, " that 
 there is great beauty in his Treatise on Old 
 Age." 
 
 " Certainly; and great ingenuity of reason- 
 ing : but it is precisely of the same nature, and 
 upon the same principle, as the first of the Tus- 
 culan Questions, in which he endeavours to 
 prove that death is not an evil. Being afraid of 
 death, he was of course alarmed at the approach 
 of old age ; but as it was unavoidable, he at- 
 tempted to persuade himself that it was not an 
 evil." 
 
 " Was there much insincerity in the character 
 of Cicero ? " said the person who had asked the 
 last question. 
 
 " I should be sorry to think so," said Lep- 
 pard, " because I regard him as the model of 
 a high spirited Whig." 
 
 " You sympathize with Ins oratorical powers," 
 said Fitzgeorge, "and love Whiggery because 
 it rules by eloquence."
 
 16 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 " Are you not with us yourself ?" 
 
 " As a matter of party, I am," replied Fitz- 
 george, " but not as a matter of principle ; if 
 Lord Fitzgeorge were a Whig, I should be a 
 Tory; but as Lord Fitzgeorge is a Tory, I am a 
 Whig." 
 
 " You treat yourself unjustly," said Leppard, 
 " in accusing yourself of want of principle." 
 
 " Pray let us have no talk about principle," 
 said Borrowman, " we shall grow stupid if we 
 get on that topic. Fitzgeorge has as much 
 principle as any one else — I very much like his 
 principle, too, of enjoying life while it lasts." 
 
 " That I believe," said Fitzgeorge, " is a 
 point on which few differ in reality; and when 
 men rail in good set terms at indulgence, it is 
 because they love it, and cannot attain it. So 
 the good thihffs of life have the suffrage of all, 
 of those who praise, and of those who vitu- 
 perate them ; and he at last is the only truly 
 honest man who enjoys them as heartily and as 
 much as he can."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 17 
 
 There was sitting at the table one who never 
 sat there again, a pale and studious-looking 
 young man, who had in the world a reputa- 
 tion for philosophic acuteness and dialectic 
 dexterity ; it was the same that had ventured 
 an opinion on the beauty of Cicero's Treatise 
 on Old Acre; Fitzo-eorge wished to draw him 
 out, and to extract amusement from his philo- 
 sophy. " Come, philosopher, as the topic is 
 luxury, let us have the benefit of your opinion." 
 
 The wine was mounting the philosopher's 
 head, and was, by its inspiration, rendering 
 him rather more philosophical than usual, cer- 
 tainly more eloquent or voluble. Forgetting, 
 or not considering, the character and disposition 
 of his host, he replied, " If, sir, you ask my 
 opinion of luxury, you must permit me, with 
 great freedom of speech, to utter my opinion 
 according to the best of my poor judgment and 
 ability." 
 
 Fitzgeorge gave a significant look to Borrow- 
 man, and replied to the philosopher, " Speak
 
 18 FITZGEORGE, 
 
 freely, my dear fellow ; freedom is the soul of 
 philosophy.' \ 
 
 " Then, sir," resumed the philosopher, — with 
 a slowness of utterance which was partly the 
 result of formality, and partly produced by a 
 consciousness that his tongue might trip if it 
 were hurried, — " of luxury I must say, having 
 observed human nature with great attention, 
 that whatever be the quantum of enjoyment in 
 any man's life, whether that enjoyment be 
 mental or bodily, in proportion to his enjoyment 
 will be his suffering, of one kind or other. Our 
 pleasures come from our pains, and our pains 
 are the parents of our pleasures. Those pains 
 are the most acute which are the consequence 
 of our pleasures, and those pleasures are the 
 most poignant which are the result of our 
 pains. Therefore, I opine, that they who seek 
 for pleasure through the medium of luxury, 
 though they may fancy that they enjoy pleasure, 
 yet provide for themselves afterwards an un- 
 easiness or pain which counterbalances the
 
 FITZGEORGE. 19 
 
 pleasures of their indulgence. Nature will not 
 be cheated, she has provided a certain quantity 
 of pleasure and a certain quantity of pain for 
 us all, which we can neither increase nor dimi- 
 nish." 
 
 u Amen," said Fitzgeorge, " a very capital 
 sermon !" 
 
 " But permit me to proceed.'' 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; you have given us a most ex- 
 cellent homily," said Fitzgeorge ; " you shall 
 take orders, and Lord Fitzgeorge will give you 
 a living. You shall be his domestic chaplain." 
 
 Fitzgeorge then ordered the table to be 
 cleared of the glasses and decanters, and di- 
 rected that others of a different construction 
 should supply their place. Each guest was 
 furnished with glasses that had no feet, and 
 could only be held in the hand ; while globular 
 decanters also that could not stand, but must 
 of necessity pass from guest to guest, were set 
 moving round the table. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Philosopher," exclaimed Fitz-
 
 20 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 george, " taste the present pleasure, and leave 
 the future pain to chance." 
 
 " I contend," said the philosopher, " that 
 there is no such thing as chance. There is a 
 concatenation of causes and effects eternally- 
 held together by the great chain of necessity." 
 
 " Pardon me, my good sir," said Fitzgeorge, 
 
 r 
 
 interrupting him ; " but I must beg that you 
 will not interfere with the concatenation of 
 causes and effects by holding the decanter eter- 
 nally in your hand." 
 
 " Pardon me," said the philosopher in reply, 
 " but I was thinking." 
 
 " Thinking !" exclaimed Borrowman, " how 
 can you think of thinking in such good com- 
 pany as this ?" 
 
 " Your business," said Fitzgeorge to the phi- 
 losopher, " should rather be to make us think. 
 Come, pass the bottle." 
 
 The philosopher did so, and the bottle came 
 round to him again and again so rapidly, that 
 it bewildered his faculties. Nor was it only
 
 FITZGEORGE. 21 
 
 one who suffered ; the lights danced and 
 twinkled, the room reeled to many eyes, the 
 tongues of many that had been comparatively 
 silent were let loose, and there was a loud and 
 manifold talking ; and with a natural instinct 
 all the talkers addressed their discourse to 
 their host. In their cups, however, there was 
 not a total oblivion of the dignity of their en- 
 tertainer : they addressed him freely and fami- 
 liarly, but not without a consciousness that in 
 so doing they were taking a liberty which in 
 a state of perfect sobriety they would not have 
 presumed upon. Now there was eloquence 
 from every tongue, and there was pathos in every 
 tone ; — smiles and tears, wit and wisdom, pro- 
 fanity and piety, indecency and fastidiousness, 
 politeness and rudeness, keenness and stupidity 
 — all were blended together in a babbling chaos 
 from whence no light or order could be extracted. 
 Attempts were made at consecutive discourse, 
 but every attempt failed. The continuity of 
 thought was broken in every mind, and no two
 
 22 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 eyes in the whole party could look for two 
 minutes steadily and steadfastly on one object. 
 Hands were stretched out to bespeak atten- 
 tion, but no attention could be given, because no 
 one was conscious of the movement save the 
 individual w T ho made it; voices were raised 
 louder and louder one above another, but such 
 was the disorder, they scarcely knew each man 
 his own voice. The decanters which were made 
 not to stand, were compelled to lie down — some 
 on the floor, and some on the table, and some 
 on seats deserted by their living occupants; 
 the glasses that lacked feet soon lacked legs also, 
 and in shining fragments lay scattered here and 
 there. A cloudy and misty recollection of the 
 various topics that had been discussed during 
 the symposium still hovered about the recol- 
 lection of some few of the party, and curious 
 were the fragments of philosophic observation 
 or w r itty remark which occasionally were blurted 
 forth by those, whose tongues yet retained the 
 power of articulation. Seated on the ground,
 
 FITZGEORGE. 23 
 
 between two chairs, Borrowman still murmured 
 forth his pungent witticisms, as the wounded 
 soldier on the routed field lies firing at inter- 
 vals the musket which he has barely strength 
 to hold, but not steadiness to direct. 
 
 By the assistance of the domestics the party 
 were separated and removed each to his respec- 
 tive residence ; but oblivion had crept upon them 
 before they parted, and they knew not how they 
 reached their homes.
 
 24 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE NEXT MORNING. 
 
 As it is morning all day long on some part 
 of the globe or other, so it is morning all day- 
 long to some individuals or others in society. 
 Fitzgeorge's morning commenced at half-past 
 two o'clock p. m., when he awoke with a 
 burning; headache and a confused recollection. 
 His first thought and greatest fear was, that in 
 the familiarity of his symposium he had com- 
 promised his dignity, and had suffered greater 
 license of speech, than the distance in rank 
 between himself and some of his guests would 
 warrant. By degrees his memory grew more
 
 FITZGEORGE. 25 
 
 clear, the events of the preceding day stood 
 more distinctly before his recollection, and he 
 surveyed them not with perfect satisfaction. 
 He was not well pleased with the language 
 of the philosopher who had contended for the 
 equality of human enjoyment, and for the 
 powerlessness of man over his own destiny. 
 
 " I have health and strength," said he to 
 himself; " I have the hopes and appetites of 
 youth. I have more in possession than most 
 young men, far less to desire than any of my 
 companions. There is not one with whom I 
 would change places — there are many who 
 would willingly change places with me. I have 
 wealth to purchase every conceivable luxury, I 
 have rank to command good society, I have 
 manners and address to pass well in the world. 
 I love homage, and can command it; for it is 
 an honour in the estimation of many to be in- 
 vited to my table, and it would be a punish- 
 ment to be banished from my society. I can 
 attract whomsoever I please to invite to my 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 26 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 society, and the moment that they become 
 disagreeable I can dismiss them again. If I 
 have political ambition, I can indulge myself 
 there, for I have political influence. I can 
 command the artist and can enjoy the arts. I 
 can exclude all that is disagreeable and I can 
 command all that is agreeable. Why then can 
 I not have a life of pleasure unmixed with 
 pain ? What can prevent me from the fulness 
 of human enjoyment ? What should that lean- 
 visaged man know of life and of its capacities ? 
 I will have no more of his society; — 1 will 
 hear no more of his raven talk. I will lay it 
 down as an invariable rule, never on any oc- 
 casion to be departed from, to get speedily rid 
 of every thing that annoys me, and to obtain at 
 any price whatever pleases or attracts me. I 
 will let my friends see that I can value and 
 reward compliance with my humours, and that 
 I can resent contradiction. I will enjoy the 
 pleasures of society and familiarity, but I will 
 not and need not compromise my dignity.
 
 TITZGEORGE. 27 
 
 Many persons make themselves wretched by 
 neglecting to use vigorous and decisive measures 
 to rid themselves of annoyances. It shall not 
 be so with me. Decision does much for the 
 character in other respects, I will tiy what it 
 will do in the matter of enjoyment." 
 
 Thus did Fitzgeorge reason with himself, 
 and promise to himself the enjoyment of life. He 
 knew well enough that many moral writers had 
 abundantly and irrefragably proved that un- 
 mingled enjoyment is not the portion of huma- 
 nity ; but he could not help thinking that there 
 might be an exception in some cases, and if 
 in any, surely in his : for he had advantages 
 that fall to the lot of few ; he was above all 
 fear of poverty or disdain ; wealth and honour 
 were his inheritance ; — he was the eldest son 
 and heir of Lord Fitzgeorge, a nobleman of 
 high character, of ancient family and distin- 
 guished opulence ; — he had been educated 
 with most consummate care; tutors of the high- 
 est character for moral and intellectual qualifi- 
 c 2
 
 28 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 cations had been engaged to store his mind 
 with knowledge, and to develop the powers of 
 his understanding; — an eye of the strictest 
 attention had watched over his morals, and as 
 his father and mother were remarkable for their 
 punctilious observance of the duties and deco- 
 rums of life, they were anxious and hoping 
 that their son might tread in their steps. As 
 the young man on coming of age was destined 
 to inherit a large fortune independent of his 
 parents, a double vigilance seemed necessary 
 to form him to such habits as should prevent 
 the dangers arising from almost unlimited means 
 of indulgence. He was therefore not initiated 
 into habits of luxury, but care was taken to 
 keep him from the society of such as might 
 have any injurious influence over his mind. 
 But it was impossible, and perhaps it was hardly 
 attempted, to keep flattery away from his eye 
 and ear. It was impossible for him, even in 
 his very earliest days, not to see that he was re- 
 garded as a person of some importance. The
 
 FITZGEORGE. 29 
 
 strictness of the discipline under which he was 
 placed, the high character and high considera- 
 tion of his tutors, the anxiety which they mani- 
 fested for his improvement, the satisfaction 
 and delight which they so loudly and warmly 
 expressed at every indication of the success of 
 their efforts, all tended to impress on the mind 
 of Augustus Fitzgeorge that he was an individual 
 of more than ordinary importance. He saw in 
 very early youth that they who received homage 
 from others paid homage to him, and he thus 
 felt himself to be of a superior nature to those 
 by whom he was surrounded. The studious 
 frugality and plainness of his table, though 
 mortifying to his appetite, was gratifying to 
 his vanity ; for though it was not a desirable 
 distinction, it was a distinction. He saw readily 
 and clearly enough that he was under no neces- 
 sity of struggling into notice and forcing his 
 way to eminence, for that by the very condi- 
 tion of his birth he was a person of conse- 
 quence. He soon understood that fortune was
 
 30 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 waiting his acceptance, not proffered to his 
 diligence. Therefore, in the construction of those 
 aerial castles, which are the favourite architec- 
 ture of youth, he was not devising means of 
 acquisition, but meditating modes of enjoy^ 
 ment. He was abundantly pleased with the 
 consideration with which he was treated in a 
 state of pupilage, and he anticipated that not 
 less respect would be shown to him when arrived 
 at the state of manhood, but that the restraints 
 of minority would then be withdrawn. He re- 
 garded with equal distaste the plainness of his 
 table and the strictness of his moral superin- 
 tendance, and he anticipated with no small de- 
 light the time when he should be his own mas- 
 ter, and should take under his own cognizance 
 the ordering of his table, the selection of his 
 associates, and the regulation of his morals. 
 He had been initiated most completely into a 
 high estimation of himself ; he had experienced 
 enough of the rigidity of restraint to long for 
 liberty ; and he had by the constrained tern-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 31 
 
 perance of his boyhood, impatiently borne, 
 been prepared for the wildness of unbridled 
 luxury. 
 
 When, therefore, the time of his liberty 
 arrived, and with it the means of indulgence, 
 he was prepared for any excess and for every 
 extravagance. He had the spirit of luxury, and he 
 thought that he had its science in full perfection. 
 In this apprehension, however, he was wrong ; 
 for no man knows the science of life till he has 
 spent all the days of his life, and when all is 
 over he knows how it ought to have been re- 
 gulated. 
 
 Scarcely had Fitzgeorge finished a late and 
 yawning breakfast, when a reverend visitant 
 was announced, a full-blown dignitary, who 
 had experienced some of the beneficial effects 
 of Lord Fitzgeorge's patronage, and was look- 
 ing forward to the enjoyment of more. This 
 reverend doctor was in a situation of some little 
 difficulty. All his earthly hopes were fixed on 
 the Fitzgeorge family. Lord Fitzgeorge had
 
 32 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 still some livings in his gift which might fall 
 during his lordship's life > or which might, for 
 life is uncertain, be at the disposal of the next 
 Lord Fitzgeorge. It was the doctor's policy, 
 and a duty which he owed to himself and family, 
 to conciliate the good will of the Fitzgeorges, 
 both father and son ; but it was not easy to 
 stand well at the same time with a careful and 
 rigid parent and with a careless and luxurious 
 son; — and the mission on which he was now 
 sent was one of expostulation and reproof. But 
 all animals have an instinct of self-preservation, 
 and the clerical animal not less, perhaps, than 
 any other. When the doctor was ushered into 
 the presence of Augustus Fitzgeorge, the young 
 gentleman was reclining on a sofa, attired in a 
 damask morning gown, and reading in a morn- 
 ing paper a poetical and exaggerated account 
 of his own grand and select entertainment of 
 the preceding clay ; for while the guests had 
 been drawn home senselessly in their respective 
 carriages, the busy sons of the press had been
 
 FITZGEORGE. 33 
 
 compiling, composing, and printing a full, true, 
 and particular account of the splendid dinner 
 given by Augustus Fitzgeorge to some of the 
 most distinguished wits, statesmen, and philo- 
 sophers of the day, describing with great minute- 
 ness the magnificent furniture of the mansion 
 and the superb appointments of the table. This 
 morning paper had been at a much earlier hour 
 in the hands of Lord Fitzgeorge, and he had 
 seen with no great satisfaction an account of 
 his son's extravagance, and a list of his son's 
 companions. In much haste therefore, and in 
 no little anger, he commissioned this reverend 
 doctor to wait on Augustus, and to give him a 
 serious admonition of the impropriety of his 
 conduct. It was an unpleasant commission, but 
 it must be executed. There are some well-dis- 
 ciplined countenances, which can blend with the 
 grave frowns of moral rebuke the gentle smiles 
 of courteous deference. They are fine paper 
 editions of divinity lectures, superbly bound in 
 calf extra, with gilt edges, and abundance of 
 c3
 
 34 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 blind-tooling. Such was the clerical expostula- 
 tor who now presented himself to Augustus 
 Fitzgeorge. 
 
 u It grieves me, sir/' said he, "to be the mes- 
 senger of reproof; but I have it in command 
 from your honoured father, Lord Fitzgeorge, to 
 express the deep concern which he feels, that 
 you have selected such unsuitable companions ; 
 and that in their society you have been led into 
 such unbecoming excesses.'' 
 
 The reverend doctor carefully watched the 
 countenance of Fitzgeorge, which showed some 
 symptoms, though but slight, of displeasure. 
 
 " I do not take it upon myself," continued the 
 messenger, " to dictate what should be the con- 
 duct of a gentleman so exalted in rank, and so 
 distinguished in society. I merely fulfil the 
 duty which, from my situation, devolves on me, 
 of bearing to you your honoured father's sen- 
 timents." 
 
 " Doctor," replied Fitzgeorge, " my honoured 
 father has singular notions on many topics ; and
 
 FITZGEORGE. 35 
 
 I believe you have generally found that there is 
 a difference of opinion between fathers and sons in 
 the matter of conduct and enjoyment. Your 
 profession also leads you to regard juvenile 
 follies, as they are called, with rather more 
 severity than they deserve." 
 
 " True, sir, very true," answered the doctor ; 
 it is highly proper that persons in my situation 
 should preserve a degree of decorum in their 
 sentiments and demeanour; yet I would not 
 have you imagine that I am a mere ascetic, 
 and that I inveterately set my face against all 
 the enjoyments and innocent pleasures of life* 
 True religion, Mr. Fitzgeorge — true religion is a 
 cheerful and not a melancholy thing. True re- 
 ligion does not seek to deprive us of any real 
 pleasure — it merely teaches us moderation in 
 the use of the good things of this life. I con- 
 sider it the business of my profession to render 
 religion attractive to all persons, It is the beauty 
 of religion that it adapts itself to all classes and
 
 JO riTZGEORGE. 
 
 conditions in society. The highest are not above 
 it, the lowest are not beneath it." 
 
 " Exactly so, doctor, I wish you had been of 
 our party yesterday. We had with us a gloomy 
 philosopher who would fain have persuaded us 
 that there is a perfect and absolute equality 
 of enjoyment in the human condition." 
 
 " Blasphemy ! blasphemy !" replied the doc- 
 tor; " nothing is so hostile to true religion as 
 philosophy. Ever while you live, my dear sir, 
 avoid the society of philosophers. Gloom and 
 philosophy are both hostile to religion ; and as 
 for equality — you are the last person in the world 
 who should give countenance to any thing like 
 the doctrine of equality." 
 
 " I assure you, doctor, I gave no countenance 
 to his doctrine, but I punished him for the pro- 
 mulgation of it by laying him under the table. 
 He was the first that fell." 
 
 The doctor frowned a smiling frown and said, 
 " It was right to punish him, but I question
 
 FITZGEORGE. 37 
 
 whether it was not wrong to punish him through 
 the medium of intoxication, for intoxication is not 
 one of the Christian virtues, it is rather a sin." 
 
 u A sin," replied Fitzgeorge, " that brings 
 its own punishment with it." 
 
 " Right," said the doctor, with a smile of 
 approbation, a perfectly right. I see that you 
 have veiy just views, and you have only to act 
 up to them. As I have said before, and as I 
 often say in my public ministrations, religion 
 does not interfere with any of our real com- 
 forts, but only prohibits those things which 
 would be injurious to us."" 
 
 " Then, if I understand you rightly," replied 
 Fitzgeorge, " religion does not prohibit drink- 
 ing, but merely drunkenness." 
 
 " It is so, most undoubtedly," replied the 
 doctor ; " and drinking in moderation, that is 
 to say, in moderation, is a pleasure ; Scripture 
 itself saith, ' Wine rejoiceth man's heart.' But 
 drinking to excess is painful and injurious." 
 
 " Therefore," said Fitzgeorge, "it is irreli-
 
 38 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 gious, because it is unwholesome. Very good. 
 But, doctor, is there no excuse to be ever made 
 for a little exuberance of vivacity, for an oc- 
 casional excess ?" 
 
 " Certainly, I would not be so rigid as to 
 deny that there may be some cases in which an 
 extraordinary cup may not be sinful; and 
 sometimes it may happen that the most cautious 
 are off their guard. But there is nothing to 
 be so carefully avoided as vicious principles. 
 They poison the very fountain of morality 
 and the source of action. It has been rumoured 
 that you have shown too great an inclination 
 to countenance persons of licentious principles. 
 It really shocks me to think that any gentleman 
 at your table should presume to say a word in 
 favour of equality, a doctrine subversive of all 
 order and decorum and good government. A 
 more pernicious notion could never by any 
 means take possession of the mind of man." 
 
 " Your pardon, doctor,'' replied Fitzgeorge; 
 " my philosophical visiter said not a w T ord in
 
 FITZGEORGE. 39 
 
 favour of political equality of condition; he 
 merely contended for the equality of human en- 
 joyment, whatever might be the inequality of 
 position or situation." 
 
 " A worse doctrine still, if possible," said 
 the doctor, " for it is nearly blasphemy, and 
 contrary to all human experience. Is it not 
 clear that the Creator favours some of his crea- 
 tures more highly than others ? Is not England 
 a highly-favoured country, blessed above all 
 other countries on the face of the globe ? 
 And are not the nobles of this highly-favoured 
 country blessed with peculiar and distinguished 
 blessings ? Now, yourself, for instance — I speak 
 it not to flatter you, for flattery becomes not 
 my sacred profession — but are you not in posses- 
 sion of all that heart could wish or humanity 
 desire ? You have rank, you have wealth, you 
 have youth, you have the advantage of a fine 
 person, of a superior understanding, and of a 
 well-furnished mind ; — and have you not, 
 therefore, higher and brighter prospects of hap-
 
 40 FITZGRORGE. 
 
 piness than the great multitude and mass of 
 common people, whom Providence hath not so 
 highly favoured ? " 
 
 " That is exactly my notion of the matter," 
 said Fitzgeorge ; " and I intend to act upon the 
 principle, and to enjoy life as well and as 
 heartily as I can." 
 
 " Right, my good sir, very right, it would 
 be ungrateful in you not to enj oy life. ' To 
 enjoy is to obey,' as the poet hath it. It is not a 
 supposable case that Providence hath furnished 
 mankind with the means of enjoyment without 
 intending that they should be used." 
 
 " Then, doctor, you are not of the same 
 opinion as my philosophical friend ; you do not 
 admit of the equality of human enjoyment." 
 
 " I should be very sorry," said the doctor, 
 (i to entertain any opinion in common with a 
 philosopher. [I do not know any set of men 
 more pernicious to society than philosophers. 
 They turn the world upside down, and intro- 
 duce confusion and every evil work. If it were
 
 FITZGEORGE. 41 
 
 not for philosophers, the world would go on 
 quietly and regularly enough ; men would fear 
 God, honour the king, pay tithes and taxes, 
 mind their own business, and be thankful for all 
 the blessings of a good government ; — but now- 
 a-days, alas ! instead of that beautiful order, 
 we find all the world dissatisfied and discon- 
 tented • no one knows what he would have ; 
 all the old landmarks are broken up, and peo- 
 ple, instead of reverently obeying the laws, and 
 piously attending to religious instruction, are 
 presuming to speak evil of dignities, and ob- 
 truding their unholy criticism and impertinence 
 even on the sacred functions of a regularly or- 
 dained priesthood. Such men as Leppard and 
 Borrowman are, notwithstanding their great and 
 acknowledged talents, seriously guilty in en- 
 couraging such disaffection. Lord Fitzgeorge 
 is especially grieved that you should associate 
 with such men — men who are of such mischie- 
 vous politics too." 
 
 " My worthy friend," replied Fitzgeorge,
 
 42 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 " you know that I do not trouble myself much 
 with politics; and as for Leppard and Borrow- 
 man, they have not much sympathy with the 
 rabble, or they would never pay their court so 
 assiduously to me. 11 
 
 "And I am sure," said the doctor, "that 
 it does not become me to meddle with politics. 
 All that I know of politics is what I learn from 
 the Bible, which teaches me that every soul 
 should be subject to the higher powers, and that 
 the powers that be are ordained of God. It has 
 always been the concern and care of my life to 
 treat my superiors with respect; and I hope 
 that in conveying the paternal admonition to 
 you on the present occasion, I have not shown 
 myself wanting in the deference due to exalted 
 rank." 
 
 " By no means," said Fitzgeorge, making at 
 the same time that kind of movement which 
 sagacious men so well understand as being a 
 signal of leave to depart. The reverend doctor 
 took his leave, rejoicing in the dexterity with
 
 FITZGEORGE. 43 
 
 which he had contrived to give most grave ad- 
 vice without offence, and pleased with the pow- 
 erful logic by which he had proved the agree- 
 ableness of religion. 
 
 On the departure of the divine, there sprung 
 up in the mind of Fitzgeorge another set of re- 
 flections. " I like," said he to himself, " the 
 sensual religion of this priest far better than the 
 rigid moroseness of the affected philosopher. 
 I profess myself to be neither philosophical nor 
 religious ; philosophy is a mere ignis fatuus ; 
 philosophers are only respected by philosophers, 
 the rest of the world understands them not. 
 In all but their philosophy they are fools, and 
 perhaps in that too. A deep philosophy is not 
 fit for a gentleman, and a shallow philosophy 
 suits not my ambition. The frowns of thought 
 spoil the countenance, the abstraction of inves- 
 tigation produce absence of mind and constraint 
 of manners. As for religion — it will be time 
 enough for me to think of that fifty years hence. 
 My father is religious — after a fashion ; he says
 
 44 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 his prayers at church much louder than I do — 
 and by the same rule, at the theatre he laughs 
 much more heartily than I do; but he is as 
 full of craft as those who say no prayers at all, 
 and can be as pettish and ill-humoured as those 
 who never laugh. I will heed neither philo- 
 sophy nor religion, but will frame my conduct 
 on a surer basis — my own apprehension of what 
 is good and desirable."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 45 
 
 CHAPTER. III. 
 
 FIRST-LOVE. 
 
 When so brilliant a star as Fitzgeorge ap- 
 peared in the hemisphere of life, all eyes were 
 fixed upon it with a gaze of admiration, 
 and astonishment. Some looked with envy 
 as well as admiration, but homage was paid 
 by all ; for envy is homage, and so is calumny 
 and a loud detraction. Fitzgeorge was the 
 universal model ; — he was the centre to which 
 every eye was directed, and the topic on 
 which all tongues discoursed. In public 
 he was the point of attraction; at theatres 
 no pathos of tragedy nor humour of comedy 
 could draw the general attention from him. In
 
 46 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 the crowded assembly, where all pressed round 
 him, yet reverence preserved an unincumbered 
 space about him ; partly, perhaps, from a feeling 
 of respect, and partly also that his fine figure 
 and commanding port might be seen to better 
 advantage. When he spoke every tongue was 
 silent, every ear attentive, and every eye was 
 fixed with reverend observance. Was he disposed 
 to be humorous? The ready laugh or grace- 
 ful smile was at his command from every coun- 
 tenance. Did he affect wisdom ? He was an 
 oracle. Did he discourse on matters of taste ? 
 There was but one opinion among his auditors, 
 and that one opinion was his. Fashion from 
 him had no appeal. His word was a law to 
 which more reverence was paid than to the 
 gospel. Nature had conferred upon him the 
 dictatorship in all matters of dress and decora- 
 tion ; in the realm of ornament he was supreme 
 and absolute. Fair eyes gazed upon him ad- 
 miringly, but amidst the myriads that admired, 
 few, very few, were they who could aspire to his 
 hand ; the admiration which was without hope
 
 F1TZGE0RGE. 47 
 
 was also without fear. At a distance haughty, 
 and apparently reserved, yet on a nearer ap- 
 proach such were the fascinations of his man- 
 ners, that the haughtiness which w T as known 
 was not felt. There is in some minds a o-rati- 
 tude for admiration and a readiness to return 
 the compliment. It w r as not so with Fitzgeorge ; 
 he accepted it as a due, and he so far deserved 
 it, that he laboured hard to attain it. Nor only 
 did he study to gain admiration, but heartily 
 did he enjoy it, when he had gained it. When 
 many eyes were fixed on him in public he was 
 deeply conscious of the honouring gaze. Thus 
 were his thoughts driven backward upon him- 
 self, and wherever he moved he had a lesson of 
 self-love, which he was but too apt to learn. 
 Yet he thought that he could love. 
 
 As the sublime and the ridiculous are sepa- 
 rated by an inconceivably short interval, so is 
 there in a first-love either the utmost seriousness 
 of profound feeling, or the weakest and most 
 contemptible selfishness and self-ignorance.
 
 48 FITZGEOEGE. 
 
 There is scarcely a single interest in human 
 nature, or accident of being, that tries and de- 
 velopes the mind so completely as a first-love. 
 In all subsequent attachments, except when a 
 man is in his dotage, there is something of de- 
 sign, of intention, of reflection ; but in a first- 
 love there is an overwhelming of all the faculties, 
 a revolution of all the feelings, a confusion of 
 the vision, and a paralysis of the judgment; 
 the multitudinous world then seems to contain 
 but two beings. There is then to the lover but 
 one being worthy of regard, there is but one 
 image in his mind and one thought in his heart. 
 The whole aspect of nature is changed to him ! 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the bright blue sky, and 
 the verdant fields, have no beauty in his eyes 
 but as they are blended with thoughts of his 
 beloved one. He that had lived for many ob- 
 jects, and in whose mind there had been mani- 
 fold ambitions, has now but one object for which 
 he lives, and but one ambition to which his 
 thoughts can be directed. All other joys to him
 
 FITZGEORGE. 49 
 
 are sorrows, and all other society to him is so- 
 litude. There is one with whom all trials, toils, 
 and difficulties can be cheerfully met, and with- 
 out whom there is neither light in ihe day nor 
 beauty in nature. There is one for whom the 
 lover is prepared to sacrifice wealth, luxury, 
 life — every thing but the pride of rank. 
 
 It was Fitzgeorge's lot to lose his heart, if a 
 man may be said to lose that which he never had, 
 to one at such an immense distance from himself 
 in rank, that for a while he could scarcely be- 
 lieve his senses. It has been said, and it will be 
 seen, that it w T as the deliberate intention and de- 
 cided study of his mind to enjoy life to the ut- 
 most of its capacity of enjoyment, to seek after 
 pleasure wherever it was to be found, and to 
 purchase it at whatever price it might cost; in 
 a word, to sacrifice every thing to pleasure, and 
 to sacrifice pleasure to nothing — save to his pride, 
 which was his greatest pleasure. As it was his 
 object to enjoy a life of pleasure, he looked for 
 it where the world ordinarily says that it is to 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 be found, and where every body goes to seek for 
 it — in public assemblies — in halls of festivity — 
 in theatres — in masquerades. In these places 
 was his vanity gratified, and he was admired by 
 many, though there were but few that he ad- 
 mired. But there stole upon him imperceptibly 
 a passionate admiration of one of those, whose 
 profession it is to mimic the joys and sorrows of 
 human life — converting into an amusing poetry 
 the dull prose of actual being. 
 
 " You are unusually attentive to the play to- 
 night," said Sir William Dangle to Augustus 
 Fitzgeorge, at the close of the fourth act of 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 Fitzgeorge almost sighed — when waking from 
 his reverie, he said, " I never till now saw the 
 beauty of Shakspeare's genius. His conception 
 of the character of Juliet is superb." 
 
 " The actors do something for a play," said 
 Dangle. 
 
 " The Juliet does every thing for this," replied 
 Fitzgeorge : " as for the Romeo, methinks I
 
 FITZGEORGE. 51 
 
 could enact the character better myself. There 
 is no passion — no sentiment. The fellow is as 
 cold as moonlight !" 
 
 " Does there not appear/' said Dangle, " a 
 little affectation in Juliet?" 
 
 " Affectation !" exclaimed Fitzgeorge, almost 
 angrily. 
 
 Dangle, who did not presume to differ from 
 Fitzgeorge, and who was afraid, as the old 
 saying hath it, to call his soul his own in 
 Fitzgeorge's presence, backed hastily out of the 
 accusation, and defined affectation to mean no- 
 thing but what was sublime, pretty, beautiful, 
 agreeable, or any thing that Fitzgeorge pleased. 
 
 " We do sometimes see/' continued Fitzgeorge, 
 " performers throw such a new life and spirit 
 into an old play, as though the character, which 
 was written a hundred years ago, was made ex- 
 pressly and exclusively for them. I have seen 
 many Juliets, but never one like this. 1 ' 
 
 Sir William Dangle was going to speak again, 
 but the curtain rose, and Fitzgeorge gave him a 
 d2 
 
 UBMfft 
 
 Ss^o f «umo. S
 
 52 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 look which signified silence, and that look was 
 obeyed. It had usually been Fitzgeorge's prac- 
 tice at the theatre to amuse himself rather with 
 the audience than with the performance — to en- 
 joy the involuntary admiration of the multitude 
 of eyes attracted by the gracefulness of his per- 
 son and the splendour of his dress ; but on the 
 present occasion all this was forgotten. He saw 
 nothing but Juliet — he cared for nothing but Ju- 
 liet : his eyes were fixed upon her, as though he 
 was fascinated. It seemed for a while that lie 
 would set the unfashionable fashion of attention to 
 the business of the stage. His attention, however, 
 as it was seen by some more knowing than him- 
 self, was not on the performance so much as on 
 the performer : his sympathy was not with the 
 mimic Juliet, but with the real and actual indi- 
 vidual who performed the character: he cared 
 for the living being, not for the poetic abstraction ; 
 and when the curtain fell, his eager eyes seemed 
 straining as though they would prevent its fall,
 
 FITZGEORGE. 53 
 
 or lift it again to gaze once more on the lovely 
 form that had so sweetly imitated death. 
 
 A party supped with Fitzgeorge after the play. 
 For the first and perhaps last time in his life, he 
 was heedless of those around him. There was 
 wit from the witty — gaiety from the gay — and 
 wisdom from the wise; but wit, gaiety, and 
 wisdom had no charms for him — his thoughts 
 were in the tomb of the Capulets. There were 
 new luxuries on the table, and new decorations 
 in the apartments, to catch the eyes and admira- 
 tion of his guests ; but he heeded not the luxu- 
 ries, the decorations, or his guests. If the name 
 of Juliet was mentioned, his eye kindled up with 
 new lustre, and his heart beat quick with new 
 emotions. All this abstraction and all this emo- 
 tion were of course unobserved by himself, or he 
 would have used some effort to subdue them. — 
 They were not, however, unobserved by his 
 guests ; for he was a person of too much import- 
 ance, and was too much a centre of the world's 
 eye, for any movement of his mind or feature to
 
 54 PITZGEORGE. 
 
 pass unnoticed. He never spoke a word that fell 
 unheeded from his lips, nor did a thought ever 
 cross his mind, or a passion disturb his breast, 
 giving to his look an appearance of emotion, 
 without exciting the sagacity and conjectures of 
 those around him. 
 
 The following morning there was no news- 
 paper on Fitzgeorge's breakfast table. — "What's 
 the meaning of this omission V said Fitzgeorge 
 hastily and haughtily to his valet. This anger 
 was caused by an impatience to read what was 
 said in the morning papers concerning the 
 beauty and pathos of Juliet. The absence 
 of the paper was owing to the fact that the 
 valet had previously seen that there was a 
 paragraph in it alluding too pointedly to his 
 master. 
 
 Not having invented an excuse for the ab- 
 sence of the paper, or not having determined 
 which to select of the many lies, which occurred 
 to him in simultaneous abundance, the servant 
 hesitated and was confused.
 
 F1TZGEORGE. 55 
 
 " I insist on having a paper this instant. Fly, 
 sirrah ! and if you wish to keep your place let 
 me have every morning paper that is published." 
 
 Fitzgeorge was not to be disobeyed, and the 
 papers were brought. The affairs of Europe 
 were as the dust of the balance in comparison 
 with the affairs of Drury Lane Theatre. On 
 that part of the paper which criticized the 
 dramatic performances his eye first rested ; with 
 an intense eagerness he perused every line that 
 spoke of Juliet till he fancied himself to be the 
 real Romeo. The scene was recalled to his 
 mind's eye, and the music of that sweet voice 
 was heard again. He saw again the soft lan- 
 guishing look which, even during the perform- 
 ance, had so often met his admiring and un- 
 deviating gaze. But, saddest sight of all, he 
 saw that the ignominious people of the press 
 had dared to profane his name by placing it 
 in their columns satirically. He had the mor- 
 tification to read as follows. 
 
 " Some idea may be formed of the powerful
 
 56 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 performance of Juliet when we say that the 
 Hon. Augustus Fitzgeorge, who usually amuses 
 himself at the theatre rather more with the au- 
 dience than with the performance, was so at- 
 tracted by the fascinations of the acting or of 
 the actress, that when Juliet was on the stage 
 his attention was not for a moment withdrawn. 
 We thought, but we might be mistaken, that 
 he occasionally showed symptoms of deep emo- 
 tion ; we thought that more than once we ob- 
 served in him an illustration of the poet's words, 
 and that he 
 
 Unable to conceal his pain, 
 
 Gazed at the fair 
 
 Who caused his care, 
 And sighed and looked and sighed and looked again. 
 
 Fitzgeorge scowled disdainfully, and drew 
 himself up to the full attitude of supreme con- 
 tempt for the arrogant presumption of the 
 nameless reptiles who dared to profane his 
 name with their insolent banter. There is
 
 FITZGEORGE. 57 
 
 something in a good hearty fit of profound con- 
 tempt and bouncing pride, which, though some- 
 what ludicrous, is not altogether ridiculous. 
 Pride may be ridiculous, but when it is carried 
 with a high hand and a hearty spirit, the ridi- 
 culousness of the feeling is lost in the sublimity 
 of the earnestness with which it is developed. 
 
 Sir William Dangle was announced. " My 
 dear Dangle," said Fitzgeorge, " I am at home 
 to nobody but you this morning." 
 
 This Sir William Dangle was a young gentle- 
 man of fair aspect, of mild manners, and gentle 
 demeanour. He had nothing to do with his 
 time and talents but to adorn his person and 
 get rid of the day. He was always very happy 
 to make himself useful to his superiors, and so 
 good-humoured as never to be rude or insolent 
 to his inferiors. In a word, he was one of those 
 whom the world calls a pretty fellow; — he lived 
 upon the surface of life as carelessly and lightly 
 as the bodyless flies that skim the surface of 
 a summer stream. 
 
 d3
 
 58 FITZGEOltGE. 
 
 " Read that," said Fitzgeorge. 
 
 Dangle took the paper and did as he was bid, 
 though he had read it all before ; but it was 
 all in the day's business, for it was his business 
 to do whatever Fitzgeorge might please to com- 
 mand him. 
 
 « What do you think of that?" 
 
 u Think ! " said Dangle, who did not know 
 what to think till Fitzgeorge told him. 
 
 " Ay, think," replied Fitzgeorge; " is it not 
 villanous ? " 
 
 " Scandalous," replied Dangle. 
 
 " But she is a lovely creature." 
 
 " Beautiful," answered Dangle, who was 
 then almost in love with her himself, if Fitz- 
 george had not commanded otherwise. 
 
 " You sometimes attend the rehearsals, and 
 gossip in the green room." 
 
 " Occasionally I do. I was there this morning." 
 
 " Ay," said Fitzgeorge, eagerly, " yes — yes — 
 there this morning — well — so — how did she 
 look?"
 
 FITZGEORGE. 59 
 
 a Lovely, interesting.' , 
 
 " Had she seen the papers ?— Was my name 
 mentioned? — Was any remark made? — Did 
 you converse with her ? " 
 
 " I believe that some one observed that there 
 was at least one admirer of the performance of 
 Juliet." 
 
 " Alluding to me?" said Fitzgeorge. 
 
 " Or to me?" said Dangle. 
 
 " To you ? " exclaimed Fitzgeorge, in such a 
 tone as convinced the worthy baronet that he 
 must not for a moment presume to be an ad- 
 mirer. " You must attend the rehearsal to- 
 morrow, and discover who and what she is, — 
 and — and — you must take a note to her." 
 
 Dangle knew it must come to this, and he 
 sighed bitterly, but concealed his sorrows from 
 Fitzgeorge. " Suppose," said he, "the affair 
 should come to the knowledge of Lord Fitz- 
 george." 
 
 " Let it : I heed it not."
 
 60 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 " But if I am seen in the business, I shall 
 lose my good name with Lord Fitzgeorge." 
 
 " And if you are not, you will lose your good 
 name with me. Dangle, mark me — I am not 
 to be trifled with ! " 
 
 " But what will Lord Fitzgeorge say ? He 
 must certainly hear of it. The papers will make 
 town talk of it." 
 
 " What he will say to me is nothing to you ; 
 and what he may say to you is nothing to me. 
 Settle that matter with yourself. — I am Romeo, 
 and you must bear a letter to my Juliet : you 
 must convey my vows of eternal fidelity." 
 
 Fitzgeorge wrote with his own hand, and 
 sealed with his own seal, a note which con- 
 tained nonsense enough to win the silliest heart 
 that ever beat in a fair, frail bosom. This note 
 Sir William Dangle, as in duty bound, took to 
 Juliet's lodgings. Dangle had not acknow- 
 ledged to Fitzgeorge that he was in the habit 
 of visiting this lady at her lodgings, and that he
 
 FITZGEORGE. 61 
 
 was in the almost daily practice of calling and 
 sitting there for two or three hours every morn- 
 ing and entertaining her with his insipid prate 
 and meaningless looks, mistaking softness for 
 tenderness. 
 
 Juliet, for by that name alone we shall call 
 her, was young, beautiful, interesting, romantic, 
 — a creature of sensibility, looking around her 
 for pathos and poetry, fancying that life was 
 made for nothing but tenderness and sentimen- 
 tality, breathing sighs with every breath, and 
 throwing languishment into every look. She 
 had been attracted to the stage by the pure 
 passion for romance ; the reality of life was too 
 harsh and cold for her ; she was only happy in 
 the utterance of passion's wildest language, and 
 in the expression of those emotions which be- 
 long to a heart full of impulse and void of 
 balance. In the performance of those characters 
 which delineate the mere woman, the being of 
 susceptibility and tenderness, she was quite at 
 home. She studied, indeed, but little was the
 
 62 PITZGEOKGE. 
 
 study she needed ; and to good effect was that 
 study given. As yet she had not met with any 
 being in the world answerable to those fairy-tale 
 notions which had crept into her infant mind 
 
 9 
 
 and which had grown with her growth, and 
 strengthened with her strength; even on the 
 stage, all her passion in the character of Juliet 
 had been directed, not to the living personifica- 
 tion of the Romeo that was before her partici- 
 pating in the labours of the mimic scene : there 
 was, however, on the night that Fitzgeorge 
 visited the theatre, a realization of the vision of 
 her romantic notion in his fine person and grace- 
 ful manners ; the smile that placidly played on 
 his approving features as he looked with ap- 
 plause on the successful efforts of the impas- 
 sioned actress, the manliness of his figure, and 
 courtesy of his demeanour as he received and 
 returned the accidental homage of those near 
 him ; the fine exclusive pride which played like 
 a halo of glory around him, lifting him, as it 
 were, above the earth, were enough, and more
 
 FITZGEORGE. 63 
 
 than enough, to captivate the heart of young 
 simplicity, and to dazzle the imagination which 
 had never submitted itself to the cooler restraints 
 of judgment. Juliet that night acted with her 
 heart and with her eyes ; the lustre of confiding 
 love, the passionate tenderness of unsuspecting 
 credulity, the glee of a nameless and a bound- 
 less hope, the overflowings of a passionate heart, 
 guileless, but for the simple vanity that moved 
 it, threw into the personification such an ex- 
 quisite reality, and so superb a spirit of poetry, 
 that the house was in a rapture of admiration 
 and applause. To this passionate and simple 
 creature — yet not altogether simple— -Sir Wil- 
 liam Dangle came as a messenger of Fitz- 
 george's love. 
 
 Dangle himself, as we have said, was a fre- 
 quent attendant at Juliet's lodgings, and he 
 would often accompany the sweet singing of 
 her lovely voice with the violin, and sometimes 
 he would join her in some languishing duetto, 
 imagining himself and Juliet a pair of turtle
 
 64 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 doves. But now his mission was of a far dif- 
 ferent kind ; a harsher duty now devolved upon 
 him and a more severe employment was des- 
 tined for him. He entered the apartment with 
 a graver aspect, an air of embarrassment hung 
 about him, and he appeared very much indeed 
 like an awe-stricken lover, conscious of his pre- 
 sumption in aspiring to the hand of an angel. 
 Women have eyes keen as light and quick as 
 lightning ! they can read deep thoughts, if 
 there be passion in their depth. Juliet saw 
 that there was constraint and hesitation in Sir 
 William's look; Juliet suspected, but for a 
 moment, that the baronet was framing his lips 
 and summoning up his courage to tell a tender 
 tale, and send his soul in sighs. The messenger 
 of Fitzgeorge^ love now drew the tender billet 
 from its perfumed abode, and with an imper- 
 fectly suppressed sigh presented it to the fair 
 hands for which it was destined. The seal was 
 visible, but Juliet looked as though she saw it 
 not.
 
 FITZGEORGE. 65 
 
 " Shall I read it immediately ? " 
 
 " Immediately." 
 
 There was a profound silence ; — a silence so 
 profound that Juliet heard the beating of her 
 heart. Sir William looked on the ground or 
 he might have seen the superbest blush that 
 ever came into a lovely countenance, rendering 
 it ten thousand times more lovely than ever. 
 For some seconds after she had read the note 
 Juliet was speechless — Sir William looked for 
 a reply — the only signature to the note was, 
 " Romeo.'' Who was Romeo? Juliet could 
 guess but would not say. Prettily feigning an 
 ignorance of the writer, she asked with as much 
 calmness as she could collect, "Who is Ro- 
 
 meo £ 
 
 9" 
 
 " Can you not guess ? Who should he be V 
 the fair one simperingly said, " Who but Sir 
 William Dangle can it be ? w 
 
 Sir William placed his right hand on his left 
 side, and bowing with much humility and 
 sheepish diffidence, replied, " Surely you cannot
 
 66 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 think that I should be guilty of such pre- 
 sumption." 
 
 "Who can it be?" 
 
 The baronet pointed to the seal. " 'Tis abso- 
 lutely impossible," said Juliet, from whose mind 
 the image of the gay and gallant Fitzgeorge had 
 not departed for a single instant from the very 
 moment that looks of intelligence had passed 
 between them ; — " Fitzgeorge ! the graceful, the 
 gentle Fitzgeorge — no — no — Sir William, you 
 are mocking me — I may not believe it." 
 
 " Not believe it ! " exclaimed the baronet, 
 who was astonished that any one should dis- 
 believe what he knew to be a fact, and who 
 could not think it possible that Juliet was affect- 
 ing ignorance and incredulity ; " you must have 
 observed the marked attention he gave to every 
 passage of your performance, and you cannot 
 have forgotten the graceful bow with which he 
 honoured you, and the smile with which he 
 received your acknowledgment of his con- 
 descension."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 67 
 
 " Forget ! oh, 'tis impossible to forget, and 
 as impossible not to admire. But can one in 
 his exalted sphere deign to regard with more 
 than a passing approbation so humble a being 
 as I ? Sir William, you know the simplicity of 
 my poor heart, and you are making sport of 
 me." Then, suddenly checking herself and 
 altering the tone of her voice, she said, " Ah ! 
 what have I said ? — Is this notice an honour ? 
 — Have I cause to be proud of it ? No — no — 
 'tis humiliating — 'tis dishonourable ? " 
 
 Offering the note again to the bearer, Juliet 
 continued in a tone of well-feigned gravity : 
 " I must beg that you will be pleased, Sir 
 William Dangle, to return this note to him from 
 whom you received it, and to say from me that 
 I cannot, may not, must not commence a cor- 
 respondence which will certainly terminate in 
 misery. Ever shall I look up to him with pro- 
 found respect ! I shall ever regard him as the 
 first and best of men, an honour to the human
 
 68 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 species — but I dare not listen to the proposals 
 herein contained. Think what the pious and 
 the good Lord Fitzgeorge would say ! Oh, it 
 would break his fatherly heart ! Think too of 
 the strict decorum of Lady Fitzgeorge ! " 
 
 Sir William Dangle was completely posed. 
 He knew not what to say or what to think. 
 Having been in the habit of looking up to 
 Fitzgeorge as one whose very wishes were com- 
 mands, and whose words demanded an unques- 
 tioning obedience, he was surprised at the re- 
 quest to take back the note and to pronounce 
 the negotiation at an end almost as soon as it 
 had commenced. But Juliet was as good an 
 actress off the stas;e as on. The sentimental 
 drama was her forte ; so that in the present in- 
 stance she imposed most effectually on Sir Wil- 
 liam Dangle, who thought that his embassy 
 had altogether failed, and that he had nothing 
 to carry back to his employer but intelligence 
 that Juliet was inexorable.
 
 FITZGEORGE. Ob* 
 
 ( * But you will not send the note back again ; 
 it will be more courteous to write. " 
 
 " And more politic," thought Juliet ; — she 
 wrote accordingly, and kept the charming 
 Romeo's billet to muse on in her solitude.
 
 70 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE NEGOTIATION. 
 
 Fitzgeorge was in love, deeply, desperately, 
 but not despairingly. Actually there were mo- 
 ments when he thought of Juliet with so pas- 
 sionate an emotion and with such an over- 
 whelming interest, that he almost imagined that 
 he could be happier with her in a cottage than 
 without her in a palace; and so perhaps he 
 could have been for a month or two. When he 
 read the pretty, modest, poetical and sentimental 
 note which Juliet had written to him, he sighed 
 over it — he wept over it. He sat in solitude in 
 a superb saloon, and lifting up his eyes to the
 
 FITZGEORGE. 71 
 
 gilded roof, could not but admire the taste which 
 he had displayed in devising such splendid forms 
 of decoration; he looked round on the walls 
 where hung the choicest specimens of the pro- 
 ductions of the first artists in the world, and 
 he was proud of the tact which could distin- 
 guish their excellence and of the wealth that 
 could purchase them ; he looked on the sump- 
 tuous furniture of the apartment, and all was 
 perfect; he surveyed his own form reflected 
 from a lofty mirror which stood before him, 
 and he rejoiced in the thought that there was 
 perfection in that form. His imagination wan- 
 dered away from the scene before him to halls 
 of festivity, and he recollected the homage with 
 which he was there received, and anticipated a 
 homage yet more complete on some future day, 
 when the title of the great Lord Fitzgeorge 
 should be his, and when he should have nothing 
 to desire. There was nothing within and nothing 
 without, nothing in the past, nothing in the fu- 
 ture to disturb, terrify, or annoy him; he Was,
 
 72 F1TZGE0RGE. 
 
 or at least he thought that he ought to be, the 
 happiest of mortals, the most enviable and the 
 most envied of the human species; but still 
 there was a drop of bitterness in his cup. The 
 thought of Juliet dwelt painfully on his mind, 
 yet painful as was the thought, he would not for 
 worlds have been without it. 
 
 " With Juliet," said he to himself, " I should 
 be the happiest of mortals, without her I am the 
 most wretched. What avails the splendour that 
 surrounds me ? What the value of the homage, 
 with which I am every where received ? What 
 the use of the treasures which have been poured 
 into my coffers ? What the satisfaction of my 
 exalted rank and my honourably distinguished 
 name? But a few days ago I thought that 
 every thing that heart could desire was within 
 my reach, and now the very luxuries, in which 
 I gloried and exulted, grow flat and insipid. 
 Is there any truth in the sentiment of the 
 morose philosopher, that every condition of life 
 must have its annoyances, that pain is pur-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 73 
 
 chased by pleasure, and pleasure by pain ? No, 
 no ; it cannot be, Nothing is wanting now to 
 my perfect happiness but to call Juliet mine; 
 mine by the bonds of an undying affection, by 
 bonds stronger than human laws !" 
 
 He paused awhile in his meditations, and 
 then again the current of his thoughts took 
 another direction. " I am almost tempted," 
 continued he, in his soliloquy, " to envy the 
 free condition of the humbler race of mortals 
 who, having no dignity of rank to maintain, 
 can marry whom they will, and can enjoy their 
 quiet homes in peace, independent of the world's 
 eye and heedless of its idle talk." 
 
 It was not long that such envy dwelt in the 
 breast of Fitzgeorge. The strong and decided 
 taste for ostentation, for the luxury of the eye, 
 which was one of the most inseparable of his 
 passions, recovered its dominion, and it may be 
 more than suspected that he would not have 
 surrendered any of the pomps of his station, 
 could he even by the sacrifice have made Juliet 
 
 vol. I. E
 
 74 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 his own. Another and another perfumed billet 
 found its way to the escrutoire of Juliet, who 
 punctually and prettily answered them. As 
 these answers were conveyed through the hands 
 of Sir William Dangle, and as the young lady 
 had not yet had any interview with Fitzgeorge, 
 they were always expressed with the utmost 
 caution, and as it were, with some lurking sus- 
 picion of the identity of the writer with the in- 
 dividual whose name they bore. Written pro- 
 testations could not meet and obviate this 
 difficulty ; and Fitzgeorge more than once me- 
 ditated a personal visit to the fascinating actress. 
 But though of age, and so far independent, he 
 had some little fear of Lord Fitzgeorge before his 
 eyes, nor was he altogether desirous of the eclat 
 which such a visit would give him with the 
 public press. His visits, however, to the theatre, 
 were more frequent; and his attention to the 
 hesitating and doubting fair one, was more 
 decided and unequivocal. There he thought 
 not how many eyes were upon him ; but heed-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 75 
 
 less of all observation, his whole soul was en- 
 grossed by one obj ect, and all his ingenuity was 
 brought into exercise to give intimations to 
 Juliet, that he was veritably the writer of the 
 sweet notes, which she had so romantically, so 
 modestly, and so unbelievingly answered. There 
 was such an ineffable grace in his manners, 
 such a fascination in his fine eyes, so sweet a 
 condescension in his smile, he was altogether — 
 so Juliet thought — a model of manly and gen- 
 tlemanly perfection. Her eyes told him that 
 she adored him ; and as she had eyes only for 
 •him in all the crowded theatre, she thought not 
 of the myriads of eyes which were fixed on her, 
 some censoriously and some jealously. 
 
 When the performance at the theatre was 
 over, Juliet would retire to her lodgings, and 
 would bring before her mind's eye an image of 
 the graceful Fitzgeorge, and she would invest 
 that image with all poetic colouring and un- 
 earthly glory. To her mind he was the only 
 living being that answered to her notion of a 
 e2
 
 76 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 perfect character. Perfection to different minds 
 is a word which has different meanings ; to some 
 it presents moral notions, to others intellectual, 
 but to the mind of Juliet it presented only the 
 elements which in their combination form the 
 romantic. Her's indeed was not the romance of 
 historic chivalry, but of an outrageous and girl- 
 ish sentimentality. Her apprehension of mental 
 qualities was intensely and essentially superficial. 
 The ©race that could turn a sentence and modu- 
 late a period, was to her the understanding that 
 could evolve an idea. The music of the voice 
 was to her ear and apprehension the harmony 
 of the soul ; she saw nothing deeper than the 
 smile which played on the features ; and with 
 all the mere mechanism of outward manners, her 
 fancy blended every pleasing or desirable attri- 
 bute of mind. A passion for Fitzgeorge took 
 possession of her heart, and she knew it not. 
 She thought that she might innocently and 
 harmlessly admire, with an admiration bordering 
 on idolatry, one so far above her. She could
 
 FITZGEORGE. 77 
 
 not but know the meaning of the correspondence 
 which he had commenced, but she wilfully shut 
 her eyes to it, and indulged herself in thoughts 
 of the goodness, kindness, and gentleness of 
 heart, which distinguished Fitzgeorge in her 
 imagination above all other human beings. 
 Perhaps she did not think how much the ele- 
 gance of his manners and the beauty of his per- 
 son, and the eclat of his rank, contributed to 
 heighten, if not to fonn, this goodness, kindness, 
 and gentleness of heart. While she seemed to 
 herself to be gently blaming his passionate con- 
 descension, and proving to herself the utter im- 
 possibility of continuing the correspondence, she 
 was in reality merely devising means to form 
 the arrangement contemplated by her gallant 
 and graceful lover. As soon as her imagination 
 had started a difficulty, that same imagination 
 heard the sweet voice of Fitzgeorge musically 
 removing the difficulty, and softly dispersing 
 her fears. 
 
 Fitzgeorge was young and inexperienced. He
 
 78 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 knew not, nor could he discern, that which all 
 others could see, the love of Juliet for him. In- 
 tensely and heartily as a vain man may flatter 
 and persuade himself that all who see and hear 
 him must admire him, it is not easy for the vain- 
 est of men, when passionately in love, to dis- 
 cover in the beloved object the passionate return 
 of that love. It may perhaps be laid down as a 
 general axiom, that the more deeply a young 
 man is in love, the less able is he to detect 
 symptoms of love in another; and when a lover 
 sees that he is beloved, then there frequently 
 follows a growing indifference towards the hi- 
 therto beloved. These common-place notions 
 Fitzgeorge had not yet learned ; he might have 
 heard of them, or have read of them in books, 
 but he believed them not, because he appre- 
 hended them not. So his love for Juliet was yet 
 more and more sincere ; his thoughts were in- 
 cessantly occupied about her, and he cared com- 
 paratively little for all the other interests of life. 
 The various artists who were in ordinary requi-
 
 FITZGEORGE* 79 
 
 sition with their skill and toil to decorate his 
 person and his dwelling, found him compara- 
 tively indifferent to them. When contemplating 
 some new design for decorative furniture, lie 
 would manifest a strange absence of mind, and 
 interrupt the examination of a pattern by the 
 heaving of a lover's sigh. As yet Fitzgeorge 
 had little to do with political business, but men 
 of politics were about him and political talk was 
 frequently their topic. Liberality of sentiment 
 was his profession, and he affected to rank him- 
 self in the Opposition. But when the passion 
 for Juliet had taken possession of him, he cared 
 for neither Whig nor Tory, and he had no spirit 
 to enter into the agitating topics of the day. 
 
 A young man of very high rank, of very large 
 fortune, and of still larger expectations, has, of 
 course, a great number of friends; and the 
 friends of such a one generally consider it a 
 part of their duty, and a manifestation of their 
 friendship, to humour him in all his caprices, 
 and to countenance him in all his follies. They
 
 80 FITZGEORGE, 
 
 are his friends not so much from friendship to 
 him as from friendship to themselves, and they 
 know that they can only continue to be his 
 friends so long as they are subservient to his 
 purposes, and are compliant with his humours. 
 The friends of Fitzgeorge saw that he had lost 
 his heart, and that he was dying for the lovely 
 Juliet. They consulted one with another, and 
 they agreed that it was a sad pity that the peace, 
 happiness, character, and reputation of a young 
 lady of no rank or fortune should be in the way 
 of Fitzgeorge's happiness, and not be sacrificed 
 to a passion which they did not suppose likely 
 to endure many months. Sir William Dangle, 
 as having been the messenger from Fitzgeorge 
 to Juliet, was a principal person in the consulta- 
 tions which were held on this momentous topic. 
 As man, being lord of the creation, exercises his 
 lordship over the animals which he can subdue 
 by his strength, or manage by his craftiness, 
 eating those which he likes to eat, killing those 
 which it is sport to kill, tormenting others which
 
 FITZGEORGE. 81 
 
 it may be amusing to torment, and making slaves 
 of such as have strength to labour and docility 
 to be taught, — as man does all this with the ut- 
 most coolness, and without the slightest degree 
 of compunction, regarding it as the immutable 
 law of nature, that the weaker should submit to 
 the stronger, and that the inferior should minis- 
 ter to the wants or caprices of the superior, so 
 in his demeanour towards his own species he 
 acts upon the same principles, and is moved by 
 the same impulses. He seems to think that the 
 offences of the weaker towards the stronger are 
 of a nature so heinous, as to require the visitation 
 of a most tremendous punishment, but that the 
 offences of the stronger towards the weaker are 
 exceedingly venial, scarcely deserving reproof. 
 He seems to think that the possessions of the 
 weak are the property of the strong, and that it 
 is a kind of profane rebellion in the inferior to 
 withhold ought from the superior. On this 
 principle man acts, and gravely admires the 
 beautiful gradations of rank which hold toge- 
 e3
 
 82 FITZGEOKGE. 
 
 ther, as lie fancies, the mystic chain of social 
 being. 
 
 Be this as it may, it is certain that Fitz- 
 george's friends thought it the absurdest thing 
 in the world that Juliet should hesitate to sacri- 
 fice herself to one so immensely her superior. 
 Even Juliet herself, to the shame of humanity 
 be it spoken, was blinded by the brilliance of 
 rank and the dazzle of wealth, and admitted a 
 deliberation on a proposal, which would have 
 been rejected with stern disdain, if coming from 
 one of lower grade in society than the gay and 
 fascinating Fitzo-eorge. 
 
 Sir William Dangle, in his visits to Juliet, 
 was accompanied by other friends of Fitzgeorge ; 
 men past the confines of thoughtless youth — 
 bearincr titles at which the multitude is taught 
 to stare with undefinable reverence. It was no 
 longer a doubt with her now that Fitzgeorge was 
 in earnest, passionately, sincerely in earnest. — 
 She heard from the lips of grave and titled se- 
 nators, that Fitzgeorge was dying for her— her
 
 FITZGEORGE. 83 
 
 head grew dizzy with vanity, and her heart 
 swelled with sympathy. It was sad, indeed, to 
 think that so good, so generous, so noble a being 
 as Fitzgeorge, should for a moment suffer on her 
 account. In imagination she heard his sisfhs 
 and saw his tears — sighs more graceful — tears 
 more brilliant than ever hero of romance had 
 heard or shed. The convenient baronet, at one 
 of his visits, presented to Juliet a miniature of 
 her inamorato set in gold, and adorned with 
 pearls. Dull was the gold and worthless the 
 pearls in her estimation, compared with the in- 
 teresting resemblance of the gentle Fitzgeorge. 
 On those features, so familiar to her mind's eye, 
 and so dear to her romantic heart, the lovely 
 Juliet looked and sighed and meditated : — the 
 voice, indeed, was not familiar to her ear, but 
 she gave, by the exercise of an active and fond 
 imagination, a voice of music to those features 
 of harmony and gracefulness. Miniature por- 
 traits are made for lovers — they soften the fea- 
 tures, and they bring the resemblance into so
 
 84 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 condensed a form, that only one pair of eyes 
 can gaze upon it at once. 
 
 Juliet's doubts and fears now began to dis- 
 perse — her scruples grew lighter and fainter, 
 till at length they vanished into thin air. Seated 
 at her toilet, with the portrait of Fitzgeorge be- 
 fore her, and thinking deeply of the labours and 
 toils of her theatrical profession, which, so far 
 from promising any support for the latter days 
 of her life, was scarcely adequate to meet the 
 unavoidable expenses of the passing hour — know- 
 ing the generosity of Fitzgeorge, and calculat- 
 ing, not wisely indeed, on the permanence of his 
 attachment from the strength of her own affec- 
 tion, she was prepared to consent to a meeting. 
 In contemplating the arrangement proposed by 
 Fitzgeorge, a complete revolution of feeling had 
 taken place. No longer did she regard it in the 
 light of a transgression, but took to herself a 
 degree of merit for the heroism with which she 
 would dare to brave the world's opinion for the 
 dear sake of her gentle Fitzgeorge. Pleasant
 
 FITZGEORGE. 85 
 
 and curious to all but those who use them are 
 the sophistries by which people give to the acts 
 of their inclination the aspect of virtue. The 
 world's censure — the grave anger of the good 
 Lord Fitzgeorge — the virtuous indignation of the 
 punctilious Lady Fitzgeorge — were now forgot- 
 ten, or regarded with indifference. 
 
 At length, when sufficient previous talk and 
 interchange of notes had been made, and when 
 Fitzgeorge's friends had assured him, that matters 
 had now proceeded far enough to justify him, on 
 the score of policy, in making regular proposals 
 in the form of a handsome settlement, the young 
 lover, in the ardour of his new passion, drew up 
 and sent by his faithful negociator a bond for se- 
 veral thousand pounds, forming to the mind and 
 apprehension of Juliet a handsome independence 
 for the remainder of life, let what might befai 
 her in the chapter of human accidents. Gazing 
 on the bond with a pleasing kind of incredulity, 
 which was just enough to delay and prolong the 
 pleasure of receiving the delightful intelligence,
 
 86 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 Juliet admired and almost adored the generosity 
 of her gallant and graceful lover. 
 
 il Yet what," said she to herself, in a passion 
 of romance, " is all the wealth in the world, 
 compared with the smiles and affections of my 
 dear Fitzgeorge ? Have I not the supreme feli- 
 city, the enviable happiness, of calling the best, 
 the kindest, the noblest heart in the empire, 
 mine by all the bonds of a tender affection ? — 
 ? Tis well, indeed, that he has thus sent me this 
 token of his generosity ; but the value of it is 
 not in the nominal amount of it — not in the mere 
 gross pecuniary form — its real value to me is the 
 indication which it gives of the nobleness of his 
 spirit — of the generosity of his nature." 
 
 Fitzgeorge had a seat in the vicinity of the 
 metropolis. To avoid as much as possible all 
 needless publicity, it was now arranged that a 
 meeting should take place there, and that the 
 meeting should be after sun-set ; that Sir William 
 Dangle should take charge of the lady, and that 
 at this interview such farther arrangement should
 
 PITZGEORGE. 87 
 
 be made as would remove the necessity of any 
 messengers between the parties. 
 
 To the eye of Fitzgeorge never did the sun 
 set more gloriously than it did on the evening of 
 this interesting day. He thought for once in his 
 life that the heavens looked more beautiful than 
 his own gilded roof; but beautiful as was the 
 sight of the glorious sun with its gorgeous reti- 
 nue of multiform and many-coloured clouds, he 
 was impatient at the slow departure of lagging 
 day-light. Nor was the romantic Juliet less in- 
 terested in the day's decline ; she watched the 
 sun's declining rays, and saw with indescribable 
 emotion the lengthening shadows of evening. — 
 Poor Sir William Dangle, in whose custody she 
 had placed herself for the day, and with whom 
 she dined at an obscure inn not far from the 
 place of rendezvous, was melancholy enough in 
 the thought that his beloved one should be sa- 
 crificed to another ; and he also, by sympathy, 
 took part in the absence of mind which Juliet 
 displayed ; so that had they been visible to a
 
 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 third person, not knowing for what purpose they 
 were together, they would have presented a scene 
 altogether and most exquisitely ridiculous. 
 
 At length the hour of meeting arrived. Wrap- 
 ping themselves up in a close disguise, and 
 silently gliding along the star-lit paths like 
 thieves or persons afraid of thieves, they entered 
 the park which surrounded Fitzgeorge's man- 
 sion, and took their station beneath a broad 
 spreading oak. Whether the evening was light 
 or dark, cold or warm, Juliet knew not. Her 
 eyes were fixed on the mansion from whence 
 Fitzgeorge was soon to emerge, and her heart 
 throbbed with strong emotion as she stood si- 
 lently waiting his approach. He came punctual 
 to his appointment. Juliet knew it was he by 
 the superb gracefulness of his gait. He also 
 was disguised, but no disguise could hide 
 from the penetrating eye of love and admiration 
 the object of its idolatry. Sir William Dangle, 
 like a well trained spaniel, withdrew to a modest 
 distance. Moving as rapidly as was consistent
 
 FITZGEORGE. 89 
 
 with that grace and dignity which he never for- 
 got, Fitzgeorge advanced to the spot where Juliet 
 stood, and extending his hand he said in tones 
 more sweet than music ever breathed, " It is my 
 Juliet!" 
 
 Juliet with a trembling confidence and hum- 
 ble pride, took the proffered hand, and would 
 have said, "My Fitzgeorge!" but her heart 
 swelled, her knees trembled, and sinking almost 
 to the ground with a lowly curtsey, she kissed 
 the hand which was offered to her and sighed. 
 The passionate lover raised her from the volun- 
 tary humility, and drawing her arm within his, 
 whispered sweet words, such as make young 
 lovers' hearts throb with ecstacy. 
 
 " Tis kind, 'tis generous, my beloved one," 
 said the enraptured Fitzgeorge, " that despising 
 the world's reproaches you thus condescend to 
 permit me to call you mine, mine for ever, mine 
 by every bond save that feeblest, coldest of all 
 which is mere shadow, mere name, mere cere- 
 mony, a bond which holds together in most un-
 
 90 PITZGEORGE. 
 
 natural union hearts that have no sympathy 
 with one another." 
 
 " Fitzgeorge," exclaimed Juliet, and her lips 
 trembled while she uttered that name which she 
 alone was permitted to utter with the familiarity 
 of. love, and which all the rest of the world men- 
 tioned with profound respect, " Fitzgeorge, I know 
 the generosity of your nature. I do unhesitatingly 
 confide in you. For you I surrender every- 
 thing, and by you I know I never shall be de- 
 ceived." 
 
 " Dear, sweet, confiding, intelligent creature !" 
 replied Fitzgeorge, " I have admired, adored 
 you for the unrivalled splendor of your talents' 
 for your fascinating, bewitching manners, but 
 you have now indeed made me inviolably your'sby 
 this sweet interesting confidence. This, this in- 
 deed is love, of which inferior and vulgar minds 
 can have no apprehension. I perceive the no- 
 bleness of your nature in this dignity of your 
 sentiments, and I have only to regret that the 
 absurd customs of an ignorant and stupid world
 
 FITZGEORGE. 91 
 
 render it impossible for me to honour you as I 
 ought to do." 
 
 " Alas, dear Fitzgeorge," said the emboldened 
 and impassioned Juliet, " what is the world to 
 me ? You are my world. Is there any living 
 creature on the face of the earth, whose good 
 word I can for a moment put in competition 
 with your's ? Will not a smile from you more 
 than counterbalance the frowns of the whole 
 world ? If I hear your applauding voice, I hear 
 all the applause I can desire." 
 
 " Excellent woman !" said Fitzgeorge, "We 
 were clearly and undoubtedly formed for each 
 other. Our sentiments are in such perfect har- 
 mony, our apprehensions are coincident. I per- 
 ceive that we are bound to each other by an 
 inseparable chain of sympathy. We need not 
 the idle forms and ceremonies of a jealous 
 world, we are above such low considerations." 
 
 Juliet sighed, not in sorrow, but in a passion- 
 ate admiration of the superb and elevated sen- 
 timents of Fitzs;eoro;e. It was delightful to her
 
 92 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 to find that there was in the world another being 
 as romantic as herself. Then again as romantic 
 people are always exceedingly virtuous accord- 
 ing to their notions of virtue, Juliet could not 
 help saying : " But what if the good Lord Fitz- 
 george should hear of our acquaintance ; will 
 not his peculiar opinions be somewhat shocked ? 
 May it not be a cause of uneasiness to him V 
 
 " Lord Fitzgeorge," replied the lover, " has 
 indeed peculiar opinions ; but are we, therefore, 
 to sacrifice our happiness to his peculiar opi- 
 nions ? No, my beloved Juliet ; if you hesitate 
 not for my sake to brave the world, I will not 
 hesitate for your sake to brave the anger of 
 Lord Fitzgeorge." 
 
 " Oh ! most excellent man ! Most noble and 
 generous Fitzgeorge !' J exclaimed Juliet, " the 
 more I see of your excellent nature, the more 
 heartily I adore you ! Oh ! what is there in the 
 world worth a thought compared with the con- 
 fiding ingenuousness of undoubted and un- 
 doubting love ? We will brave the world ; we
 
 FITZGEORGE. 93 
 
 are above its narrow and confined notions. Has 
 the world any thing to give at all equal to the 
 generosity of true affection?" 
 
 In such talk as this some few more minutes 
 passed, till Fitzgeorge, whose pride and selfish- 
 ness never forsook him even in the very passion 
 and pathos of his affectionate love, thought that 
 his absence from the mansion might be observed, 
 and therefore signified his wish to bring the in- 
 terview to a close. This, however, was not done 
 till such arrangements had been made as were 
 necessary for their future meetings.
 
 94 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EXTRAVAGANCE. 
 
 At the desire of her lordly lover, Juliet now 
 quitted the stage, retiring from the publicity of 
 gaping eyes to the still greater publicity of re- 
 proachful or jealous tongues. But Juliet was 
 happy and so was the enamoured Fitzgeorge. 
 Juliet was happy in a residence more splendid 
 than anything which had hitherto courted her 
 fond imagination. Juliet was happy in the 
 means of much magnificence of attire, and in ex- 
 ceeding those who had exceeded her. Surely 
 there must be something very delightful in 
 victory, in the outdoing or surpassing another ;
 
 FITZGEORGE. 95 
 
 since, for victory such toils will be undergone, 
 such pains will be taken ; it is for victory that 
 men kill and are killed; it is for victory that 
 we are struggling through the whole feverish 
 course of our agitated being. Juliet, however, 
 happy as she might be in the life of luxury and 
 splendour which she lived by means of what 
 she called the liberality and noble generosity of 
 her gentle Fitzgeorge, was still more happy in 
 his society, in hearing his rapturous protesta- 
 tions of eternal fidelity ; in listening to his some- 
 what ingenious, yet not altogether insincere flat- 
 teries ; in conversing with him on the infinite 
 and exhaustless topics of the fine arts and ele- 
 gant literature; in criticising with him the pro- 
 duct of the artist's pencil and the effusions of 
 the poet's muse. Fitzgeorge had taste, and so 
 had Juliet ; and both were gifted with a most 
 admirable fluency of speech on the lighter and 
 livelier topics of criticism. Both were pleased 
 with each other, and found or made a wonder- 
 ous similarity of taste and sentiment. Was
 
 96 FITZGEOUGE. 
 
 there a painting that Fitzgeorge admired ? Juliet 
 was enraptured with it, and was ingenious in 
 discovering all its beauties, the more latent as 
 well as the obvious. Did Fitzgeorge read aloud 
 to his adored Juliet ? the fair one to whom his 
 voice was more than mortal melody, gave the 
 whole attention of her soul ; and from his lips 
 every beauty and every grace of composition 
 came forth more beautiful and more graceful. 
 She knew by the intonation of his voice, and 
 by the gentle smoothness and prolonged enun- 
 ciation with which he dwelt on any particular 
 passage, that it contained something which gra- 
 tified his taste and pleased his fancy ; — and then 
 would she, with an expression at once sincere 
 and well-acted, proclaim, as if by an irresistible 
 impulse, her hearty commendation of the poet's 
 skill. Fitzgeorge was musical ; he had a voice, 
 — he had a taste, — he had a passion for music. 
 Music of every description was familiar to the 
 lovers, from the light lays of the love-inspiring 
 song to the more ennobling and impassioned
 
 FITZGEORGE. 97 
 
 compositions of the sacred oratorio. They 
 chaunted together the music of the cathedral 
 they sang the lays of chivalry ; and they war- 
 bled the well-poised cadences, of the smooth 
 duett which blend two voices in one with an un- 
 distinguishable harmony. Never did domestic 
 bliss appear more brilliant than with this ele- 
 gant and enamoured pair. Fitzgeorge was happy 
 in the admiration with which Juliet regarded 
 the luxurious decorations with which she was 
 surrounded. Musical instruments were pro- 
 vided for her, not merely of the finest tone and 
 the utmost accuracy of construction, but of the 
 most splendid forms and the most expensive 
 materials ; harps, richly gilded and curiously 
 carved ; pianofortes of such exquisite tone and 
 decoration, that even Fitzgeorge himself, with 
 all his subtlety of taste, knew not whether most 
 to admire the inside or the out. Fitzgeorge and 
 Juliet were happy in the mutual encouragement 
 which they gave to each others' luxury and ex- 
 travagance. It was possible, indeed, so far 
 
 TOL. I. F
 
 98 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 selfishness prevailed in his character and com- 
 position, for Fitzgeorge to enjoy the solitary 
 contemplation of his own splendour, and to an- 
 ticipate in his select meditations the eclat with 
 which the brilliance of his appointments would 
 be received in public ; but his pleasure was in- 
 creased by having an approving voice near him 
 to echo his own sentiments on every new pur- 
 chase, and commend loudly his self-admired 
 taste in every form of ornament which he de- 
 vised, — whether of dress, of equipage, or furni- 
 ture. Michael Angelo himself never gazed on 
 the poetic creations of his superb imagination 
 with more heartfelt and glowing satisfaction, 
 than did Fitzgeorge survey the operations of 
 the tailor or upholsterer in giving being to the 
 devices of his taste. A coat without a wrinkle, 
 a carpet of unprecedented pattern, hangings of 
 luxurious richness and expense which made 
 them unattainable by any but himself; — these, 
 and a myriad of other dear, delightful blessings, 
 made Fitzgeorge exquisitely happy, while their
 
 FITZGEORGE. 99 
 
 novelty lasted. Happy also, was he, when en- 
 gaged, as he often would be, in deep consulta- 
 tion with some skilful architect, whose greatest 
 skill consisted, perhaps, in the dexterity with 
 which he could anticipate and embody the 
 fancies and the freaks of Fitzs;eoro-e's taste. 
 And could Juliet do aught else than admire that 
 which he admired? — Certainly not. Over- 
 whelmed was she with wonder at the universal 
 genius of her gentle Fitzgeorge; and there 
 dwelt on her mind perpetually, with increasing 
 strength, a sentiment of gratitude for his kind- 
 ness and liberality to her. She thought not — 
 and why should she ? — that his very liberality 
 was selfishness. 
 
 She who had been with much difficulty 
 struggling, by means of a laborious and imper- 
 fectly recompensed profession, to keep up the 
 appearance of elegance and style; she who had 
 felt nothing more deeply than the inability to 
 maintain the little splendour of which she was 
 so proud, now reposed with a delightful satis- 
 f 2
 
 100 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 faction on the thought that the day of want and 
 of difficulty was passed away for ever. She 
 who had blended in her notions of romance a 
 love of show as one component part of the great 
 happiness of life, was now enraptured with the 
 elegance that surrounded her and the luxuries 
 which were at her command. For all this she 
 was indebted to Fitzgeorge, to him who had 
 every recommendation which could ingratiate 
 him with the female heart; so that being de- 
 lighted with all that was about her, and know- 
 ing that all was owing to him or connected with 
 him, she regarded him with the utmost pas- 
 sionate admiration, at once loving, respecting, 
 admiring, and esteeming him. There was ad- 
 miration for his mental qualities and graceful- 
 ness of demeanour, respect for the superiority 
 of his rank, gratitude for his liberality, and love 
 for his tenderness and afFectionateness of heart. 
 There was no good or desirable quality which 
 Juliet did not see in Fitzgeorge in a most emi- 
 nent and supereminent degree. He was the centre
 
 FITZGEORGE. 101 
 
 of all her thoughts, and the very god of her 
 idolatry. He was everything to her, because 
 for his sake she had regarded and treated the 
 world as nothing. So she was not only drawn 
 towards him by the attractions of kindness and 
 elegance, but driven towards him by the world 
 without. With him she was everything, with- 
 out him she was nothing, less than nothing — a 
 despised, neglected, forsaken, broken-hearted, 
 withering creature, perishing in the world's ne- 
 glect, and withering beneath its strong contempt. 
 She could not return to her old profession, and 
 there was no new one to receive her. Strongly, 
 however, as such feelings might influence her, 
 they did not make their approach to the mind 
 in any visible or tangible form. She thought 
 of Fitzgeorge only and always with admiration, 
 and not thinking or considering that she had 
 already sacrificed the world for him, she was 
 always imagining that her love for him was so 
 great that she could readily sacrifice a world for 
 him.
 
 102 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 No longer now did Juliet think gravely of 
 the world's censorious eyes and its reproachful 
 tongue ; she heard no sound but the sweet music 
 of her Fitzgeorge's voice, while the splendour 
 of her equipage blinded her vision to everything 
 else that surrounded her. No longer now did 
 she dread the stern displeasure of Lord Fitz- 
 george, or the virtuously indignant reproaches 
 of Lady Fitzgeorge, but proudly passed them 
 in the public street, whenever by any chance 
 their equipages met. 
 
 Whensoever virtuous sentiment has taken 
 possession of any heart, whether by means of 
 fanaticism, young affection, or timid gentleness 
 of spirit, it is some time before that sentiment 
 can be wholly eradicated. Fitzgeorge, who had 
 made it the ruling principle of his life to have 
 enjoyment where and whenever it was attaina- 
 ble, and at whatever cost, liked not that any 
 sentiment of remorse, repugnance, or self-re- 
 proach should interfere with the ease and com- 
 fort of his spirit ; therefore he took no small
 
 FITZGEORGE. 103 
 
 pains to remove from the mind of Juliet the 
 least and last vestiges of consciousness or self- 
 reproach ; and there is no logic so convincing 
 as the logic of a lover. Juliet heard him, ad- 
 mired his liberality of sentiment, marvelled at 
 the narrow views which she had formerly en- 
 tertained, and was exalted in her own esteem 
 by the thought of the more generous freedom of 
 her own sentiments, as her mind became en- 
 lightened by conversation with Fitzgeorge. 
 Thus she became Fitzgeorge's own most en- 
 tirely, she lived but for him, and he was her 
 only light, life and glory. She calculated not 
 on the durability, nor anticipated the extinction 
 of this rhapsodical fever of fondness. She 
 thought it not possible that Fitzgeorge should 
 ever withdraw his affection from her. In fact, 
 the cessation of his esteem was not to be thought 
 of, for there was nothing to look to beyond it ; 
 there was nothing for her, when that was gone, 
 but utter darkness and despair, the solitude of 
 her own sad thoughts, and the silence of a home
 
 104 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 robbed of its splendour. Therefore she became 
 almost voluntarily and wilfully blind — she lived 
 in the present, for there was nothing but the 
 present for her to live in — the past was too great 
 a contrast to be a pleasing contemplation, it 
 could not be recalled ; and the future was of so 
 exquisite an uncertainty, that its images danced 
 confusedly before the mind's eye, and wearied 
 the soul in its very attempts to think. As the 
 present was the only object of contemplation 
 and thought, that only was enjoyed, and it was 
 enjoyed with a marvellous intemperance of blind 
 delight. Grief shortens life by bringing the 
 frame to an untimely grave; joy shortens life 
 by whirling away the hours with a rapidity that 
 surprises the traveller on the road of life. Ju- 
 liet let the hours pass jauntily away, thinking 
 herself to be Fitzgeorge's goddess, when, in 
 truth, she was but his victim. Often, however, 
 in the course of her brief gaiety there were 
 hours of solitude, when the eye had no images, 
 and the spirits no stimulus ; then would an un-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 105 
 
 defined feeling of melancholy creep upon her, 
 and she would sigh, she scarcely knew where- 
 fore. But not long were her thoughts withdrawn 
 from Fitzgeorge ; on him and his exalted quali- 
 ties, and generous sentiments, and amiable sym- 
 pathies, would she meditate with a fond delight 
 and an inexpressible rapture : and when after 
 slight intervals of absence they met again, then 
 did Juliet, rising from a momentary depression 
 of spirits, break out into an intemperate joy, 
 and she would meet her gentle Fitzgeorge with 
 so ardent an admiration, and so confiding a fond- 
 ness, that he almost felt himself flattered and 
 honoured. But pleasure is as restless as am- 
 bition ; these raptures, while their intensity in- 
 creased with Juliet, gradually abated of their 
 effect on Fitzgeorge. There was, however, one 
 delight which he always had, and which, with 
 him, never lost its charm, and that was the de- 
 light of splendid extravagance : and he fancied 
 that his love for Juliet remained long after it 
 had ceased to rule his spirit, because he felt 
 f3
 
 106 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 pleased with the splendour with which he sur- 
 rounded her. 
 
 It is, perhaps, possible, that love in a cottage 
 might have had charms for Juliet, but it is not 
 very probable that such love would have had 
 such powerful attractions as the love which 
 was manifested by a liberal expenditure, and 
 blazoned in a lavish display of wealth. Per- 
 haps it may be said of Fitzgeorge and Juliet, 
 that they were both deceived and both de- 
 ceiving.
 
 FITZGEORGE. 107 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ALIENATION. 
 
 No man learns philosophy from books and 
 aphorisms, for if he reads that which he has not 
 experienced, he either disbelieves or misunder- 
 stands it. Fitzgeorge had read, and he had 
 been told by others, especially by the grave 
 philosopher who had once sat among his guests 
 at the festive board, that pleasure purchases 
 pain, and that pain purchases pleasure, and that 
 no mortal can enjoy unmixed pleasure. Fitz- 
 j^eorge had read, but he had not believed, that 
 " man never is, but always to be blessed." True, 
 indeed, he found, and acknowledged to himself
 
 108 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 that he had found it to be, that in the very out- 
 set of his career of sensuality and luxury, he 
 had not experienced unmingled happiness. 
 Notwithstanding all the care which he had 
 taken, and all the unceremonious indifference 
 with which he had regarded the happiness, 
 pleasure, feelings, or accommodations of others, 
 when put in competition with his own, he still 
 found that he did not possess that perfect and 
 complete sensual enjoyment which he had pro- 
 mised himself. He had not, in the possession 
 of his splendid establishment, and in the luxuri- 
 ous arrangements of his table, that continued 
 stimulus of whieh he was in search ; but still he 
 could not and would not acknowledge that the 
 satisfaction after which he was aspiring was pro- 
 bably unattainable. He knew something of the 
 history of man — he had read of Crcesus, Sarda- 
 napalus, Nero, and others, and there was not 
 one of them whom he thoroughly envied : he 
 saw that in the lives of all these were pains, 
 annoyances, drawbacks, and sad deductions;
 
 FITZGEORGE. 109 
 
 yet he could not and would not persuade him- 
 self that the same lot awaited him in all the 
 meandrings and changing scenes of his life. 
 When he was sighing for Juliet, he thought 
 that with her he must be perfectly and su- 
 premely blest ; and for a while he fancied that 
 he was so. But gradually there came upon 
 his spirit a sadness, a weariness, a cold dis- 
 taste. Juliet's voice seemed to have lost its 
 music ; her taste looked like servility, her fond- 
 ness was excessive ; — and when fondness trans- 
 gresses the lover's notion of what fondness 
 should be, it ceases to excite sympathy, and 
 provokes antipathy; and when antipathy is thus 
 once excited, no human power or art can ever 
 prevent its downward tendency to disgust. 
 There is no impossibility in nature so great as 
 the impossibility of recalling the departed or 
 departing passion of a once ardent lover. As 
 well might it be attempted to send the sun back 
 to the east, or to urge a river to its fountain's- 
 head ; as to awake anew departed love.
 
 110 FITZGEORGE, 
 
 Fitzgeorge now began to find the fondness of 
 Juliet too excessive, her simplicity too insipid. 
 Her bright eyes had to his apprehension lost 
 their brightness, and he was for a while an- 
 noyed at the thought that he must either be at 
 the trouble of ridding himself altogether of her 
 society, or of keeping up an acquaintance which 
 had ceased to charm. At first he had some 
 little thought of the pain which he must of ne- 
 cessity inflict upon her whom he had once most 
 tenderly loved, and who had once most ten- 
 derly loved him. He had some thought of sighs, 
 and tears, and sobs, and passionate emotions ; 
 and all these things troubled him, for he loved 
 a life of perfect ease, and wished to command 
 all the events of life, and to derive from every 
 circumstance and condition of his being the 
 mere pleasure, not cnly unmingled with pain, 
 but unalloyed even with the slightest annoyance 
 or inconvenience. Youth, however, let it be as 
 luxurious as it may, and as wanton and reckless 
 as it can be in the pursuit of pleasure, still has
 
 FITZGEORGE. Ill 
 
 some sentiments and emotions of generosity, 
 some little thought of others' feelings: — and 
 with Fitzgeorge this natural feeling was not 
 quite gone, when he began to grow weary of 
 the faithful fondness of his once adored and still 
 adoring Juliet. 
 
 Juliet herself indeed perceived not, for she 
 could not, or would not, think of any thing so 
 dreadful as the abatement of Fitzgeorge's affec- 
 tion. She was still living in a confiding and 
 pleasing dream, that the romance of a few 
 months was destined to be the whole complexion 
 and character of her life. Pleasing indeed is 
 the credulity which, by shutting its eyes to the 
 precipice to which it is hastening, fancies by its 
 very blindness to escape the danger. 
 
 There were many gay, fascinating, witty, and 
 not highly-principled fair ones, who were jealous 
 of the place which Juliet held in the affections 
 and establishment of the gay and gallant Fitz- 
 george. Many were the artifices which one or 
 other used to attract his attention and wean his
 
 112 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 attachment. To all these arts for a while Fitz- 
 george was totally insensible : while he was de- 
 lighted with the society of Juliet, and happy in 
 her young and fond affection, he saw not the 
 fascinations of those who surrounded him, spread- 
 ing their various lines in hopes to catch his 
 roving heart. But when the fondness of Juliet 
 had satiated and begun to weary him — and 
 when he had ceased to regard her as the most 
 fascinating of her sex, and as the only individual 
 with whose mind and sentiments he had a per- 
 fect sympathy — then he could look with a little 
 more attention on others, and from making com- 
 parisons which gave Juliet the preference, he 
 came to make comparisons not much to her 
 advantage. 
 
 Among the intimates of Fitzgeorge were men 
 of almost every description, save the demure 
 and sober and sentimental. Gravity had no 
 great recommendation for him, unless it was ac- 
 companied with a very high degree of talent ; 
 but profligacy itself, especially if blended with
 
 FITZGEORGE. 113 
 
 some share of buffoonery and singularity, was 
 always highly attractive. There was a young 
 gentleman who, having procured a commis- 
 sion in the army by means of Fitzgeorge's in- 
 terest, wished to show his gratitude to his be- 
 nefactor ; and as we think that we most compli- 
 ment our friends when we present them with that 
 which we like ourselves, this young gentleman 
 thought that he showed his great regard for 
 Fitzgeorge by introducing him to society of 
 the most profligate description. Colonel Fitz- 
 maurice was a man of most singular and para- 
 doxical character; proud as Lucifer — vulgar as 
 a drayman — -mean as a miser — extravagant as 
 the veriest spendthrift — aspiring to the highest, 
 and associating, at times, with the lowest society 
 — punctilious as a man of the nicest honour, and 
 yet at times careless of and almost inviting the 
 insolence of his companions — he seemed as if his 
 sole aim in life was to puzzle all beholders, and 
 even to astonish himself. It might have been 
 thought that he had two souls in one body,
 
 114 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 which delighted in laughing at one another, and 
 rendering each other ridiculous. He was one 
 whom you might find any where, every where, 
 and no where. His digressions were ludicrously 
 absurd, and he might have been considered ab- 
 solutely insane, but amidst all his eccentricities 
 he seemed thoroughly sensible of his own absur- 
 dities and to rejoice in them. The acquaintance 
 which he had with the world was such, that he 
 used not unfrequently to boast, that he was ac- 
 quainted with all the courts of Europe and all 
 the alleys of London. He was at home with 
 the highest, and equally at home with the lowest; 
 and, as the fancy took him, could assume the 
 dignity of a prince or the swagger of a tapster. 
 A genius of this description was naturally at- 
 tractive to Fitzgeorge, who was constantly on 
 the look out for something stimulating and 
 amusing. The laborious, thinking, and plod- 
 ding part of the world little knows and little 
 thinks the pains and trouble which they must 
 take who live only to amuse themselves, and
 
 FITZGEORGE- 115 
 
 have but little wit to devise forms of amusement 
 Fitzgeorge was attracted to Colonel Fitzmaurice 
 from the power which the colonel had of pre- 
 senting new ideas, combinations, and excite- 
 ments. The very character also of Fitzmaurice 
 was a matter of amusement in itself, and he was 
 the most stimulating of all the friends of Fitz- 
 george, because he was decidedly the most in- 
 dependent. Still, however, amidst all his in- 
 dependence, apparent and real, for it was not 
 all real, he knew how to humour Fitzgeorge, 
 and humouring, how to govern him. 
 
 At the first acquaintance of Juliet and Fitz- 
 george, the colonel took no notice of the matter, 
 for he knew enough of human life to be aware 
 that young love is too grave a personage to bear 
 a jest. He also knew enough of the character 
 of Fitzgeorge to be very well satisfied that this 
 passion of his could not last for life or for years. 
 He knew also that, while the violence of the at- 
 tachment continued, Fitzgeorge could easily dis- 
 pense with other society, therefore he seldom
 
 116 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 presented himself and was not missed. But 
 still further he knew that when Fitzgeorge's 
 love for Juliet should abate, there would be an 
 opportunity for some other fair one to take her 
 place, and that for the making of this arrange- 
 ment some such friend as Colonel Fitzmaurice 
 might be very convenient. 
 
 Fitzmaurice could easily see that Juliet had 
 not strength of mind sufficient to be the master 
 as well as mistress of Fitzgeorge, and the colonel 
 naturally conjectured that if she could not be 
 his master she would not long be his mistress. 
 As soon therefore as any symptoms appeared of 
 an abatement of the ardour of Fitzgeorge's at- 
 tachment to Juliet, Fitzmaurice made his ap- 
 pearance again just in time not to be long 
 missed. 
 
 " The least expected, but most welcome 
 visitor!" exclaimed Fitzgeorge. 
 
 " You are not going to Ascot to-day I pre- 
 sume V 
 
 "Why not?"
 
 FITZGEORGE. 117 
 
 " Your friends say that the world is likely to 
 lose you, that there is but one attraction for 
 Fitzo-eoro-e." 
 
 "Psha!" replied Fitzgeorge. There was 
 a great deal of meaning in that apparently un- 
 meaning expletive ; and no man had a keener 
 insight into such meanings than Colonel Fitz- 
 maurice, who with all his oddities, faults, follies, 
 failings, and eccentricities, had no small share 
 of discernment. Some of his friends indeed used 
 to say that his apparently singular manner of 
 living and miscellaneous habits of intercourse with 
 all classes in society, arose from the deep interest 
 which he felt in studying human nature ; even 
 as a genuine and passionate botanist will as rea- 
 dily descend into a ditch as climb a green hill 
 in search of specimens. When Fitzgeorge 
 therefore met the colonel's allusion to Juliet by 
 an exclamation of impatience, Fitzmaurice 
 understood it to mean, as it really did, partly 
 that he was angry at the allusion to his fond- 
 ness, and partly that he was beginning, and
 
 118 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 more than beginning, to grow weary of the 
 object of that fondness. 
 
 This was the first time that Fitzgeorge had 
 even to his own ear given any expression to an 
 incipient feeling of weariness and disgust : and 
 he felt it somewhat of a relief and as a first step 
 to encourage him in throwing aside a feeble but 
 troublesome chain ; of which he had been some 
 time tired, but of which he had not yet resolu- 
 tion to divest himself. A faint smile played on 
 the sarcastic features of Fitzmaurice. Fitz- 
 george observed it, and at that smile, whatever 
 slight compassion for Juliet he might have had, 
 vanished. He had been long thinking, though 
 not very decidedly, that his fondness was his 
 folly ', he was now corroborated in his suspicions 
 by the look and smile of Fitzmaurice. With 
 what profound and indignant contempt, moral- 
 ists, in their studies, as they sit nibbling their 
 pens and balancing their periods, can think and 
 write of the weakness of mind which suffers 
 sentiment, sympathy, good feeling, and a prin-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 119 
 
 ciple of possible virtue to wither beneath the 
 half-formed smile of a sneering witling — and 
 yet, if the moralist would contemplate absolute 
 weakness and inanity, where can he find it in 
 greater perfection, than in his own arguments 
 and eloquence that are not competent to meet 
 and grapple with those sneers and contemptu- 
 ous smiles, and which cannot present to those 
 who live in society a panoply to the world's 
 censure, and enable them to hold up their heads 
 in spite of the sneers and reproaches of the pro- 
 fligate and silly ? 
 
 Fitzgeorge and Fitzmaurice conversed for a 
 few seconds, with looks that said much though 
 they spake nothing. Fitzgeorge understood 
 Fitzmaurice to say that he was astonished that 
 a man of such sense as Fitzgeorge should al- 
 most withdraw himself from the rest of the 
 world for the society of a weak and fond girl. 
 Fitzmaurice understood Fitzgeorge to say that 
 he was now pretty well weary of the silly fond- 
 ness of Juliet, and that he was very willing, if
 
 120 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 the matter could be managed without much 
 trouble, to relieve himself of the burden. 
 
 " Who is of your party for Ascot ? " said 
 Fitzgeorge. 
 
 " A lady or two ; you had better not join 
 us, there will be a little jealousy in a certain 
 quarter." 
 
 Fitzoeorp-e swore. It was rather an effort, 
 but it was in order to get rid of a burden that 
 lay heavily on his mind, and in order to break 
 the ice for more unreserved talk on the topic to 
 which allusion had been made. 
 
 Fitzmaurice saw his advantage, and that he 
 might speak very freely without fear of offend- 
 ing the magnificent and irritable Fitzgeorge. In 
 truth, the colonel had perceived, or had fancied 
 he perceived, that there was a lady of his ac- 
 quaintance who might supplant Juliet in Fitz- 
 george's affections. Fitzmaurice had heard 
 Fitzgeorge in days past speak highly of the 
 lady's wit and spirit, and lately it had been ob- 
 served that in public, more than once or twice*
 
 FITZGEORGE. 121 
 
 Fitzgeorge had been evidently attracted by this 
 lady's charms. It was gratitude, and it was 
 interest also on the part of the colonel, that led 
 him to render himself so subservient to Fitz- 
 george's pleasures and so observant of his ca- 
 prices. 
 
 u Isabella will be of our party, 11 said Fitz- 
 maurice, " and if you are not afraid — " 
 
 Fitzgeorge swore again more strongly and 
 more loudly than before; and he joined the 
 party to Ascot. 
 
 Isabella was of plebeian origin, but of patrician 
 association and ambition. So obscure was her 
 origin, that no one knew whence she came, but 
 so brilliant was her career that her name was on 
 every tongue, and her figure was familiar to 
 every eye. She lived much in public, and in 
 public she talked loud and laughed loud. A 
 greater contrast with Juliet could not well be. 
 Isabella despised sentiment and sentimentality, 
 romance and pathos. She regarded the world 
 with a degree of arrogant insolence, and de- 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 lighted in most outrageously braving the cen- 
 sure of the grave and exciting the astonishment 
 of the timid and the modest. In person she 
 was handsome ; in carriage, perfectly easy of 
 course, and by no means ungraceful. She was 
 said to be rather proud of a long neck and a fine 
 set of teeth ; these personal ornaments indeed 
 belonged to her, and were much displayed ; but 
 it is not quite so certain that she was proud of 
 them. Many were her admirers ; and with no 
 small degree of confident impertinence did she 
 demean herself towards them. It was not sup- 
 posed by Fitzmaurice, however, that her style of 
 behaviour towards Fitzgeorge would be of the 
 same complexion as towards other of her ad- 
 mirers and suitors. In this he was disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 " Fitzgeorge will be at Ascot," said Fitz- 
 maurice to Isabella. 
 
 " There will be two objects of attraction, 
 then," was her reply. 
 
 " And, perhaps, the attractors of others will
 
 FITZGEORGE. 123 
 
 be themselves attracted. You have never seen 
 Fitzo-eoro-e but at a distance." 
 
 " Nor wish to see him but at a distance." 
 " You would be proud of an introduction to 
 him." 
 
 M . Prouder than I am now I never can be." 
 u You would be charmed by his fascinating 
 manners." 
 
 tl I am already charmed to see him in public. 
 He is the very prince of coxcombs." 
 
 " He is something more than a coxcomb." 
 " He is so much of a coxcomb that I cannot 
 think it possible that he can be anything more. 
 But let me tell you, Fitzmaurice, that I admire 
 a hearty coxcomb. There is something really 
 magnificent in the heartiness with which the 
 man gives himself up to dress and luxury. I 
 hate the little meanness that loves puppyism and 
 pretends to despise it. I see nothing admirable 
 in the folly which affects not to enjoy the ad- 
 miration and envy of the world." 
 
 " You will allow, then, that there is some- 
 g2
 
 124 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 thing of genius in the sublimity and heartiness 
 of puppyism ?" 
 
 " Clearly so." 
 
 " Suppose I were to tell you that Fitzgeorge 
 was one of your sincerest admirers." 
 
 " Can he admire any one so sincerely and 
 heartily as he admires himself?" 
 
 " Is there any value in the admiration of a 
 man who has not an admiration for himself?" 
 
 " Perhaps not. — But allow me to say that if 
 Fitzgeorge has commissioned you to negociate 
 with me for an introduction to his acquaintance, 
 you and he are both deceived in me." 
 
 The colonel had much difficulty in persuading 
 Isabella that Fitzgeorge had not given him any 
 such commission. After much talk Isabella put 
 an end to the conversation, saying, " I'll not be 
 sued at second hand." 
 
 All the world knew that Fitzgeorge intended 
 to honour Ascot with his presence, and there- 
 fore all the world went there to see him and to 
 be seen by him. The road there was a long line
 
 FITZGEORGE. 125 
 
 of living beings for many a mile, not many a 
 weary mile, for the livingness of the scene re- 
 moved all idea of weariness. All eyes were 
 fixed on Fitzgeorge, and he drank in the visible 
 homage of admiration with no small degree of 
 satisfaction. His toilet had not been that day 
 neglected, but the lover of fashion saw new 
 wonders in his dress, and new graces in the style 
 of his attire. There was originality everywhere, 
 in every part of his dress, and in the very mode 
 of wearing it. Even on the race-ground he 
 was a living volume of haberdashery, a moving 
 cyclopedia of tailoring. The horses ran, and 
 lost or won. Purses changed owners ; the usual 
 number of gulls and greenhorns paid the usual 
 price for their folly, but the interest, the general 
 interest, was in Fitzgeorge. It might have 
 seemed as though all the world were tailors, 
 and that Fitzgeorge was the model that they 
 were studying. 
 
 On the ground there were many vehicles of 
 various grades, ambitiously courting admiration
 
 126 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 but one only attracted much attention and 
 caused many significant looks towards itself and 
 towards Fitzgeorge j — an open yellow carriage, 
 splendidly decorated, and occupied by as pretty 
 a piece of female affectation as ever wore 
 finery, and that was proud of the finery that 
 it wore. The beautiful and interesting Juliet 
 was the occupant of the carriage. Fitzgeorge 
 was on horseback, and accompanied by Fitz- 
 maurice. As though fearful of encountering 
 the rude gaze of Fitzmaurice, or desirous of 
 drawing the voluntary and marked attention of 
 Fitzgeorge, Juliet studiously kept at a distance 
 from the group by which her idol was sur- 
 rounded ; but her keen expressive eyes watched 
 his every look and every movement; her glances 
 were not, however, looks of jealousy, but looks 
 of love, of admiration, and of tenderness. She 
 saw also the bold and haughty Isabella stu- 
 diously displaying her valiant horsemanship — 
 riding a fiery steed that gave her abundant 
 opportunity of exhibiting her fearlessness, and
 
 riTZGEOHGE. 127 
 
 finding", in the management of an almost un- 
 manageable animal, a task all but too much 
 for her nearly masculine strength. But pride 
 feels no pain, and the love of admiration will 
 encounter many difficulties for the gratification 
 of its passion. Many were the admirers of Isa- 
 bella's bold horsemanship ; but Juliet thought 
 less of the spirit and pride of her horsemanship 
 than of the unfeminine boldness of her style. 
 Juliet looked upon her without jealousy, for 
 she believed so firmly in her gentle Fitzgeorge's 
 sincere and deep admiration of her own most 
 sweet and sentimental style of thought and con- 
 versation, that she thought it not possible that 
 he should admire ought so diametrically oppo- 
 site. Alas ! poor simple Juliet made two mis- 
 takes. She mistook Fitzgeorge's flattery of her 
 sentimentality for his own sincere admiration of 
 it, and considered not that his politeness was so 
 exquisitely elastic that he could with as much 
 ease adapt his flatteries to Isabella as to Juliet. 
 She made also another mistake in not calcu-
 
 128 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 lating on the possibility that sweets might cloy, 
 and that however heartily the voluptuous love 
 beauty, they are quite as deeply in love with 
 variety. 
 
 When Juliet observed that though Isabella 
 seemed almost purposely to throw herself in the 
 way of Fitzgeorge, yet she took no notice of the 
 slight and passing attention with which he re- 
 garded her, she concluded, of course, that his 
 pride must be offended, and she was antici- 
 pating at no short distance of time an interesting 
 and sentimental discussion with Fitzgeorge on 
 the folly and absurdity of masculine rudeness 
 in a female. Here again the simple Juliet mis- 
 calculated. There was to the mind of Fitz- 
 george something piquant and striking in that 
 bold and hearty independence of manner which 
 Isabella exhibited. Craftily did she watch the 
 movements of Fitzgeorge's countenance when 
 she arrogantly affected to be heedless of his 
 notice, and she saw there the smile of admira- 
 tion at her spirit, and no symptom of mortified 
 pride.
 
 FITZGEORGE. 129 
 
 The day wore away. Fitzgeorge seemed not 
 to be conscious that Juliet was present. Was 
 it possible that he had really overlooked her ? 
 Could his so vigilant eyes overlook any thing ? 
 Did he not know the livery of her servants? 
 He had devised their pattern, and had deter- 
 mined their colour. Could he have forgotten 
 her carriage, which had been built under his 
 own inspection ? Could he have forgotten her 
 dress, which had been of his own choice, and in 
 the arrangement of which he had suggested 
 many important improvements ? 
 
 She ordered her carriage to be driven in the 
 direction in which Fitzgeorge was. Was it ac- 
 cident or intention, that at that instant he left 
 the ground ? If accident, how strange! If in- 
 tention, how much more strange ! What a long 
 time it takes to open the eyes which have been 
 closed by the infatuation of fondness ! There 
 is a love which displays itself by a fretful and 
 pettish jealousy, which cannot bear a wander- 
 ing eye or a roving thought, which seems to 
 g 3
 
 130 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 fear the loss of its victim every movement that 
 it makes ; and there is also a love stronger, per- 
 haps, in one sense, and in another weaker, which 
 cannot be jealous if it would, which is strong in 
 its own confidence, and confiding in its own 
 strength — which will not believe its own senses, 
 which, instead of seeing that which is invisible, 
 is totally insensible to that which is staringly 
 and outrageously visible, — which possesses that 
 which may be called a negative imagination, for 
 it does not imagine that to be which is not, but 
 it imagines that not to be which obviously is. 
 Such was the love of Juliet for Fitzgeorge. He 
 had loved her once, and she had loved him — 
 her love for him was not abated, and therefore 
 she inferred, with a most defective, though not 
 uncommon logic, that his love for her was not 
 abated. 
 
 Juliet returned to her lodgings, and to the 
 perusal of the poetry which she and Fitzgeorge 
 had read together; to the perusal also of much 
 poetry written by herself. She luxuriated long
 
 FITZGEORGE. 131 
 
 in metrical sighs and imaginary sorrows. She 
 read of broken hearts, not thinking that her 
 own was to be broken, or that it should break 
 by its own weakness. She looked on Fitz- 
 george's miniature, sighed over it, wept over it, 
 kissed it, and pressed it to her bosom ; her heart 
 swelled nigh unto bursting; she held the picture 
 at arm's-length, it almost seemed to live and 
 smile ; she spoke to it, she trembled at her own 
 voice in the solitude of her apartment, and she 
 thought that her voice was really as musical as 
 Fitzgeorge, in the exuberance of his flattery, had 
 said it was. She thought of him as the best, 
 the kindest, the dearest, the sweetest, the most 
 generous, the noblest creature in the universe ; 
 as the highest of God's works, almost himself a 
 god. He was a god to her, for she worshipped 
 none else. She was his by the fondness of an 
 unconquerable affection, and so spaniel-like was 
 her love, that had he spurned her with his foot, 
 she would have loved him still and have kissed 
 the foot that kicked her, as the lamb will lick
 
 132 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 the hand that is raised to shed its blood. To 
 her Maker she merely said her prayers, but to 
 Fitzgeorge she looked with a living devotion. 
 No Catholic ever gazed on a crucifix with half 
 the veneration and holy zeal with which Juliet 
 gazed on the portrait of Fitzgeorge. What 
 eyes ! how brilliant and how beautiful ! What 
 lips ! how full of sweetness ! What a brow ! 
 how full of noble and of generous thought ! 
 She almost begged pardon of the very picture 
 for having even for a moment thought of think- 
 ing ought suspiciously of the original. 
 
 " No, no," said she to herself, " he cannot, 
 he cannot forget me, he did not overlook me, 
 his thoughts were with me, although his eye did 
 not meet mine. But he had his reasons, he is 
 as wise as he is o'ood ! His reasons are not for 
 me to comprehend. I must submit; I am his — 
 his — more than I am my own." 
 
 A volume of Pope's poems was lying on her 
 table, open as it often had been at the epistle 
 from Heloisa to Abelard. She read some of
 
 FITZGEORGE. 133 
 
 the lines, indeed she knew them all by heart, 
 she thought them beautiful, but comparatively 
 cold. 
 
 " Heloisa," she exclaimed, " could not love 
 as I do, for what was Abelard compared to Fitz- 
 george ? a pedant to a prince ! Is Fitzgeorge 
 noble, princelike ? — Nay — nay, he is more ! Oh, 
 God forgive me, subdue my fond heart — I shall 
 be guilty of profaneness in my thoughts of him ! 
 Oh, why was such perfection ever created ? "
 
 134 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A HEART-BREAKING SCENE. 
 
 Juliet's servant brought to his mistress, on 
 a silver salver, with no small share of ceremony 
 and respect, a letter. He seemed to look with 
 reverence on the letter, with reverence on the 
 silver salver, and with reverence on his mistress 
 who was thus distinguished with style and 
 honour to which she had not been accustomed. 
 With a sweet simper Juliet took the letter, and 
 she bent her graceful fingers into various af- 
 fected attitudes as she opened it. She knew 
 the writing and she knew the seal, yet she
 
 FITZGEORGE. 135 
 
 looked at them interrogatively, as though she 
 
 would ask from whence the letter came. 
 
 . With a soft sigh she said to herself, " And 
 
 when is my beloved to honour his slave with a 
 
 visit?" 
 
 This soliloquy was hardly uttered, when with 
 a shriek of agony the letter fell from her para- 
 lyzed hand. 
 
 Her servants were within hearing, and they 
 rushed unbidden to her assistance. The pale- 
 ness of death was on her face, pale was her 
 cheek and lustreless her eye. The presence of 
 her servants awakened her from her trance ; they 
 lifted up the letter, she recovered for a moment, 
 she smiled their dismissal, and she in solitude 
 again perused and reperused the note which 
 had caused this extemporaneous agony. 
 
 " How beautifully he expresses himself ! " 
 she said. 
 
 Let us see how beautifully he expressed him- 
 self. The following is a copy of his note to 
 Juliet.
 
 136 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 " We can meet no more. Circumstances 
 of a most imperious nature compel me to this 
 step, which is no doubt unpleasant to your 
 feelings, as it is, I assure you, to mine. But 
 necessity has no law. It must be so. Believe 
 me ever yours. 
 
 " Augustus Fitzgeorge." 
 
 Notwithstanding the beautifulness of the 
 expression of this note, as she called it, its con- 
 tents came on her heart like a thunderbolt. 
 She was shaken to the very centre of her soul ; 
 but her confidence in Fitzgeorge was not shaken, 
 nor was her love for him abated. She read the 
 letter ten, twenty, thirty times over. " Circum- 
 stances of a most imperious nature compel 
 me — ." She dwelt on this passage with such 
 an intensity of compassion that she pitied Fitz- 
 george for being under the influence of circum- 
 stances of such an imperious nature. 
 
 " Dear, generous Fitzgeorge !" she exclaimed, 
 " it is impossible that he should be forgetful of
 
 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 137 
 
 his Juliet ! He cannot, oh he cannot be for a 
 moment, even in thought, guilty of aught that 
 approaches the confines of cruelty — I know — I 
 am assured that he feels this as deeply as I can 
 do, nay, he even says that he does; — and no- 
 thing but truth ever came from his pen or fell 
 from his lips. Why should I not believe him ? " 
 Then came tears to her relief, and she wept 
 abundantly. She wept long and bitterly, and 
 though weeping so far relieved her as to abate 
 the stunning sensation with which she had re- 
 ceived the intelligence at first, yet it left a more 
 settled melancholy upon her soul. She then 
 felt her solitary and sad condition. She saw 
 her utter destitution — her hopelessness and 
 helplessness. In spite of all her protestations, 
 in spite of all her blind fondness, she could not 
 quite keep herself free from the thought that 
 another had supplanted her in the affections of 
 Fitzgeorge. Her wilful blindness was not quite 
 strong enough to keep out every ray of the 
 light that surrounded her. Still, however, she
 
 13§ FITZGEORGE. 
 
 fought against the suspicion. She attributed 
 the apparent change in his affection to the in- 
 fluence of Lord or Lady Fitzgeorge. She gave 
 a most generous interpretation to the phrase, 
 " Circumstances of an imperious nature/' 
 
 " But why," said she to herself, " did he have 
 recourse to this mode of parting? Why did 
 he not see me— speak to me — and in his kind 
 and gentle manner soften the pangs of separa- 
 tion. Alas ! perhaps it would have been too 
 much for his own feelings ; perhaps he thought 
 it would be too much for mine. His letter is 
 short — but affectionate — very affectionate.' ' 
 
 Then she read the letter again. She looked 
 into it with an eagerly scrutinizing eye, as if by 
 looking more closely at it and reading it more 
 frequently, she might be able to extort from it 
 more interpretation of itself, or to find some 
 new expression in it. But there it remained in 
 all its brevity, cruelty, and abruptness. Yet she 
 would not despair. 
 
 The letter reached her two days after she had
 
 FITZGEORGE. 139 
 
 teen at Ascot. It was mornino- when she first 
 
 o 
 
 read the letter, and the day had made approach 
 to its close before she ceased her perusals and 
 doubtful meditations. 
 
 " I will see him/' she said at last ; " I will 
 see him — I must see him. It will be death and 
 worse than death if I see him not. Oh there is 
 pity in his generous nature — he is goodness — he 
 is all goodness." 
 
 She ordered her carriage and drove to Fitz- 
 george's town house. He was not there. It 
 was growing dark, and not only dark but tem- 
 pestuous. Heavy clouds were rolling up from 
 the west, broad flashes of lightning were spread- 
 ing from the horizon, and the mutterings were 
 heard of the distant thunder. Timid as she 
 ordinarily was, and shrinking from the very 
 roughness of the breeze, she now heeded not 
 the coming storm, and was insensible to all 
 thought of danger or emotion of fear. She 
 astonished her coachman by ordering him to 
 drive to Fitzgeorge's country house. It was an
 
 140 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 amusement to her melancholy, and a kind of 
 living poetry for her to meditate on the sub- 
 limity of the storm. She delighted in the 
 thought that her love for Fitzgeorge rendered 
 her insensible to everything else, and communi- 
 cated a supernatural impulse to her soul. 
 
 It was nearly midnight when she arrived at 
 the mansion. The sound of merriment and 
 revelry was heard. Her arrival was announced 
 and a message came from the hall of feasting, 
 that Fitzgeorge was not to be seen. There was 
 madness in her agitated spirit. Never did the 
 acted drama present so complete and fine repre- 
 sentation of mental agony as did the expression 
 of Juliet's countenance and attitude at this 
 message. The messenger gazed at once with 
 pity and admiration at the perturbed and 
 agonized Juliet ; for, on hearing it announced 
 that Fitzgeorge refused to see her, an electric 
 shock of agony ran through her whole frame, 
 the paleness of despair in an instant fixed itself 
 on her marble features, her hands convulsively
 
 FITZGEORGE. 141 
 
 clasped each other, while lifting her eyes up- 
 wards she seemed to be asking of heaven the 
 mercy of a tear to cool the burning anguish of 
 her soul. She spoke not, she moved not, and 
 scarcely did she breathe. 
 
 " I have it in command from the Honourable 
 Augustus Fitzgeorge," said the messenger after 
 an interval of painful suspense, u to desire that 
 you would immediately leave the house and re- 
 turn to your home." 
 
 He repeated his message several times before 
 Juliet paid the least attention to it, or seemed 
 in the slightest degree conscious that any one 
 w T as speaking to her. But presently her senses 
 returned, and on hearing the word " home," 
 she shrieked in an agony of unrestrained pas- 
 sion, and exclaimed, " Home ! — Oh God — I 
 have no home — no home on earth, no home in 
 heaven. For him I have sacrificed all — and 
 without him I am a solitary outcast. Did I not 
 Jove him? did I not? do I not? and shall I 
 not for ever and ever? with him earth was hea-
 
 142 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 ven — without him heaven itself would not be 
 heaven. I shall go mad — I am mad — I have 
 always been mad. It was madness to give 
 away my heart — but I have given it and it can- 
 not be recalled." 
 
 The messenger took her hand and led her to 
 the door ; she withdrew it hastily, exclaiming, 
 " No no, touch it not, this hand is Fitzgeorge's." 
 Then softening a little the passionateness of her 
 expression, she said in a suppliant tone to the 
 messenger. " Oh, sir, if you can have any com- 
 passion for a broken and a bleeding heart, I 
 pray you, I entreat you by all the feelings of 
 humanity, to permit me to see my beloved Fitz- 
 george once more before I die. Oh plead with 
 him, plead with him, I beseech you, he will 
 listen to you. If I must be driven hence, let it 
 be by his own sweet voice. I must go if he 
 commands me, it is impossible for me ever to 
 disobey a command of his." 
 
 "Indeed madam, I must beg that you will 
 not urge it. It is, I assure you, absolutely im- 
 possible."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 143 
 
 The violence of her passion returned, and her 
 madness rekindled itself. " I must, I must see 
 him, I cannot, I will not leave this place but at 
 his command. Oh no — no — no it cannot be. 
 Let me die here ; life has nothing more for me 
 than darkness and sad despair." 
 
 Another messenger came from the hall of 
 feasting, where Fitzgeorge was surrounded by- 
 half intoxicated flatterers, who w r ere offering to 
 him the sweet incense of admiration. More 
 effectual language was used, and the spirit of 
 the wretched Juliet was at length subdued to 
 an acquiescence in the harsh mandate of the 
 unfeeling Fitzgeorge. 
 
 How strangely chequered is human life ! In 
 the experience of some are continual alternations 
 of joy and sorrow succeeding each other at brief 
 intervals, while others have long continued 
 prosperity and daily gladness of heart, till some 
 unforeseen and unexpected event ruffles the 
 current of life, and then all the use of past joy 
 seems to be merely to render the present agony
 
 144 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 the more intense. Some begin life in joy and 
 end it in tears — some through pain and sorrow 
 struggle on to peace and quiet and a happy 
 enjoyment. But without these, or some such 
 alternations, no life can possibly be passed. It 
 was the wish, aim, and hope of Fitzgeorge, to 
 have nothing: but life"*s sweets and none of its 
 bitters. He was disappointed. As well might 
 a planet, revolving round a sun, expect to have 
 perpetual daylight in both hemispheres, as a 
 man may expect in this life to enjoy happiness 
 throughout unmixed with sorrow or pain. Fitz- 
 george made it the whole business of his life 
 and thought to study the means of enjoyment, 
 and to sacrifice every other consideration to the 
 pursuit of pleasure. As he carefully avoided all 
 that might be personally painful, so he as care- 
 fully avoided all sympathy with others, thinking 
 that pain for others' sufferings was merely in- 
 flicting a gratuitous annoyance on himself. From 
 being by constitution and calculation insensible 
 to the sufferings of others, he very naturally and
 
 FITZGEORGE. 145 
 
 of course proceeded to the sacrifice, where it 
 could be made, of the happiness of others to 
 his own caprices. His consideration was his 
 own pleasure, and not the pain of others. He 
 had seen Juliet, and admired and loved her. He 
 sought and obtained her : and for the purpose 
 of obtaining her he had used all artifices and 
 protestations, which were only so far sincere, as 
 they were manifestations that he was in earnest 
 in his pursuit. For a while he had been well 
 pleased with her ; but this lasted not long. As 
 her attachment to him strengthened and in- 
 creased, twining its fibres about her heart and 
 shooting its roots into her very soul, the passion 
 of Fitzgeorge gradually and almost insensibly to 
 himself abated, growing less and less, till at 
 length it was gone, and more than gone, for its 
 place was supplied by a growing disgust and 
 weariness. That fondness which once had flat- 
 tered him now wearied him, and he began to 
 entertain a contempt for her understanding that 
 she was not able to discern how exceedingly in- 
 
 VOL. I. h
 
 146 FJTZGEORGE. 
 
 different he had become to her. It was not the 
 system of Fitzgeorge to sacrifice his own conve- 
 nience to any thing, but to sacrifice every thing 
 to his own convenience, humour, or passion. As 
 soon, therefore, as he had found out how very 
 indifferent he was towards Juliet, he was fain to 
 throw away his human toy. What she might 
 suffer was nothing to him, so long as her suffer- 
 ings were not communicated to him by the con- 
 tagion of sympathy or by the annoyance of a 
 visible knowledge. He had not activity enough 
 of imagination to enter into her thoughts, or to 
 imagine the acute feelings of her mind. It was 
 for his own sake, and not for hers, that he had 
 first sought her acquaintance ; and now that 
 he dismissed her, he regarded merely his own 
 inclination, and had no regard for aught that 
 she might suffer. The sight of suffering is to 
 many persons an almost physical annoyance : 
 nature has implanted this principle in our con- 
 stitution, as the means of awakening our minds 
 to sympathy, and of inducing us to the activity
 
 FITZGEORGE. 147 
 
 of beneficence for our own sakes, that this pain 
 or annoyance may be removed. When, there- 
 fore, a benevolently-disposed mind would move 
 itself to acts of generosity and kindness, it 
 brings before its contemplation the pangs of the 
 distressed, and sympathizes with griefs thought 
 of but not seen, so making to itself a pain, that 
 it may through that pain enjoy a pleasure. But 
 Fitzgeorge's notion was to enjoy pleasure only, 
 and to avoid pain with the utmost care and di- 
 ligence. He had so much of imagination as to 
 think that Juliet would suffer something of 
 mental distress at the separation, and he sup- 
 posed that if in his presence the sentence of se- 
 paration were pronounced it would be accom- 
 panied by some tears, perhaps some hysterics 
 and shrieks, all which would be painful to him- 
 self. This he was desirous of avoiding, and 
 therefore he had sent a mere letter of dismissal ; 
 and as he was accustomed to a prompt obedience 
 from his many servants, and a ready compliance 
 with his humours from his more numerous and 
 h 2
 
 148 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 more obsequious friends, he of course expected 
 that this mandate would readily and promptly 
 be obeyed by Juliet, and that she would keep 
 her sorrows to herself. In this he was disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 When Juliet came, therefore, to his house in 
 the passionate fulness of her grief, and inter- 
 rupted by her unwished presence the smiles 
 and gaiety in which Fitzgeorge had his being 
 and his glory, he was annoyed and provoked to 
 a petulance of irritation. Solomon has said, 
 that dead flies cause the ointment of the apo- 
 thecary to send forth a stinking savour, by 
 which figure he means to set forth the fact, that 
 that which is most superlatively fragrant may 
 not only lose its fragrancy but become odious 
 to the sense by means of a trifling interruption ; 
 for what is more fragrant than the unguent of 
 the perfumer, and what more insignificant than 
 a dead fly? Solomon applies the proverb to 
 the effect of wisdom, marred and mutilated by 
 a little folly. It is equally applicable to the
 
 TITZGEORGE. 149 
 
 effect of much enjoyment interrupted by a 
 trifling annoyance. Fitzgeorge, who was a 
 mere sensualist, imagined himself to be an epi- 
 curean, and fancied that he knew aright the 
 philosophy of enjoyment; but he deceived him- 
 self, and he let his friends deceive him. He 
 prated and he fancied that he reasoned; he 
 plotted and he imagined that he planned. He 
 had not the wit to comprehend the system of 
 life's antagonisms, and to see that for enjoy- 
 ment there must be appetite, and that for appe- 
 tite there must be vigour of exertion, exercise, 
 pain, and self-denial. A gloomy philosopher at 
 his first symposium had told him this, but he 
 believed it not. He felt the pleasures of liberty 
 when he first brake the bands of his minority, 
 and he was full of joy, life, spirits, and vivacity ; 
 but he had not the discernment to perceive that 
 he had, through the manifold annoyances of a 
 tedious minority, been preparing himself with 
 an appetite for the enjoyment of the exercise of 
 his unrestrained will. He fancied that the
 
 150 PITZGEORGE. 
 
 pleasure of the first possession of liberty was 
 the prelude to more glorious delights with in- 
 creasing means and influence, and he regarded 
 the delightfulness of the commencement of the 
 days of liberty as prospective and promising, 
 not as retrospective and contrasted. He forgot, 
 or observed not, that the happiest of men owe 
 much of their happiness to contrast and hope. 
 Feeling himself, therefore, annoyed by this in- 
 terruption, he was angry with the cause of it ; 
 and instead of pitying the pangs of heart which 
 the discarded one suffered, he was indignant at 
 her presumption in daring to obtrude her un- 
 welcome sorrows within the sacred confines of 
 his mansion dedicated to hilarity and festivity. 
 He sent, as it has been seen, a messenger to 
 order her instant departure; but as that first 
 message availed not, he sent a second in mighty 
 wrath, not a little pleased, perhaps, at the ex- 
 cuse which Juliet's importunity gave him, for 
 converting his possible pity into actual anger. 
 The second messenger was Fitzmaurice, by
 
 FITZGEORGE. 151 
 
 the persuasion of whose better managed entrea- 
 ties Juliet had been ioduced to comply with the 
 harsh command of her own gentle and affec- 
 tionate Fitzgeorge. The colonel who had the 
 power of being most rudely insulting, had also 
 an equal power of throwing into his behaviour 
 a winning gracefulness of manner which most 
 completely fascinated and deluded. He could 
 easily assume any character, for having none of 
 his own, the assumed one very easily fitted itself 
 to the wearer for the time being. Juliet, who 
 of the simple was the most simple, and whose 
 simplicity of character neutralized whatever 
 subtlety she might attempt to intermix with 
 the component parts of her mind and manner, 
 was absolutely softened and subdued by the in- 
 genious, yet heartless affectations, of Fitzmaurice. 
 She believed him most sincerely when he at- 
 tempted, with a face of marvellous gravity to 
 persuade her that Fitzgeorge could not trust his 
 feelings to the proposed interview. She be- 
 lieved him when he descanted most learnedly,
 
 152 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 yet most obscurely on those imperious circum- 
 stances which compelled Fitzgeorge to a line of 
 conduct apparently harsh and severe. She be- 
 lieved him when he told her with the hypocri- 
 tical mockery of compassion, that his heart bled 
 for her, and that he also as deeply pitied and 
 sympathized with Fitzgeorge, who was under a 
 most distressing necessity of doing sad violence 
 to his own feelings. 
 
 " He is a good and gentle being," said Juliet, 
 with affectation of manner, but with sincerity of 
 heart. 
 
 " He is all goodness and gentleness ; the world 
 is not aware of the excellences of his heart and 
 understanding,' , responded Fitzmaurice, with 
 equal affectation of manner, but not with equal 
 sincerity of heart. 
 
 " This cannot be his own act and deed," said 
 Juliet. 
 
 " Most assuredly not," replied Fitzmaurice ; 
 " has he not in every heart and in every voice 
 the reputation of the highest generosity."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 153 
 
 u He has, indeed, " answered Juliet ; " and I 
 pity him that he is placed under any circum- 
 stances of restriction which prevent him from 
 yielding to the generous impulses of his nature. 
 But might I not see him ? One look — one kind 
 look — one word — one generous word — ay — 
 even the word ' farewell' — would from his lips 
 be a treasure of remembrance to my heart as 
 long as memory shall hold its seat. 1 ' 
 
 The colonel shook his head and sighed. He 
 could upon occasion shake his head with an ex- 
 quisite gravity, and he could sigh with wondrous 
 pathos of hypocrisy. " Ah, no ! — my dear lady. 
 — See him, did you say ?" 
 
 " Yes — only let me see him — once — for the 
 last time !" 
 
 " Oh, my good madam, you know not the 
 tenderness of his heart. You know not the bit- 
 ter pang which it would cost him. Would you 
 afflict and pain your once beloved Fitzgeorge ?" 
 " Once beloved! — Ever beloved! — That 
 ' once' includes eternity ! No — no — I would 
 h3
 
 154 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 not grieve my beloved one. Oh ! rather may every 
 tear I shed, and every pang that I suffer, be the 
 means of joy and smiles to him. Let me but 
 know that he is happy, then nothing can make 
 me miserable.'" 
 
 " Generous heart 1" replied the colonel ; " one 
 every way worthy of Fitzgeorge. I lament, from 
 my inmost soul, the hard necessity which sepa- 
 rates two hearts so truly noble and so well fitted 
 for each other. But the hour grows late.— Your 
 carriage is waiting — permit me to conduct you 
 to it. And spare your beloved Fitzgeorge all far- 
 ther pangs of separation." 
 
 So Juliet was won and managed. Fitzmauriee 
 handed her to the carriage — gracefully, gently, 
 bowing and smiling ; and Juliet returned the 
 courtesy of hypocrisy with the courtesy of since- 
 rity, peradventure not unmixed with affectation. 
 
 " Tell him — tell him," said Juliet, as she was 
 stepping into the carriage — but swelling grief 
 prevented her from giving utterance to her 
 thoughts.
 
 F1TZGE0RGE. 155 
 
 " Most assuredly, " replied the colonel, some- 
 what less perfectly, than before, concealing his 
 impatience. 
 
 "Tell him I love him, for ever, forever!'' 
 So saying Juliet seated herself in the carriage 
 and Fitzmaurice with his own hands closed the 
 door, and with his own voice gave the word to 
 the coachman, " Home." 
 
 Away whirled the carriage, and at that word 
 " home/' which the very horses seemed to un- 
 derstand, Juliet's heart sunk and nearly lost the 
 power of impelling the blood through her veins. 
 The storm in the atmosphere had passed away 
 and the night was still and clear ; but the storm 
 in Juliet's bosom which had awhile been stilled 
 by the exquisite hypocrisy of Fitzmaurice, now 
 raged with greater fury than before. She loved 
 Fitzgeorge with a passion too strong for words 
 to express, and with a blindness that no light 
 could disperse or penetrate. She had been dis- 
 missed from his house — banished from his pre- 
 sence — prohibited access to him for ever. She
 
 156 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 suffered a grief that seemed almost lost in its 
 own greatness. She had lost everything but the 
 power of suffering, and there was suffering 
 whithersoever she turned. What was memory 
 but the record of pleasures past, the recollection 
 of which gave pungency to present grief ? What 
 was darkness but a living death ? And what 
 was light but a gloomy solitude and a heartless 
 waste? For whom but Fitzgeorge had her 
 heart so long been beating ? And w r hat to her 
 had been the use of eye or ear, or gentle thought, 
 but to gaze on his beautiful form, to listen to 
 the music of his voice, and to meditate on the 
 generous qualities of his noble, his exalted 
 mind ? Now all this was gone — gone at once 
 and for ever ! And wherewithal w r as this mighty 
 grief to be expressed or alleviated ? Would a 
 few childish tears or girlish sighs suffice ? 
 
 She arrived at her home. Ah ! what anguish 
 and ecstacy there are jn that one word ! Poets, 
 moralists, and philosophers, have talked about 
 it ever since it had an existence, and they will
 
 FITZGEORGE. 157 
 
 continue to talk about as long as the world shall 
 last. To Juliet the sight of home presented 
 nought but images of sorrow and promptings to 
 a sad despair. Fitzgeorge was virtually in- 
 scribed on every object that met her eye, and 
 actually engraven on many. Who had chosen 
 her residence ? — Fitzgeorge. Whose taste had 
 selected the furniture? — Fitzgeorge's. From 
 whose library came those gilded and fragrant 
 volumes of heart-touching poetry ? — From Fitz- 
 george's. By whose patronage did the artist 
 flourish, whose pencil gave life and animation 
 to those beautiful landscapes ? — By Fitzgeorge 's 
 — kind, liberal patron of the arts ! Whose 
 miniature is that enshrined in gold and pearls ? — 
 Fitzgeorge's. And whither could Juliet fly from 
 these reminiscences ? — His shade would haunt 
 her every where ; his image was blended with 
 all her thoug-hts. 
 
 o 
 
 While Juliet, thus discarded, was bewailing 
 her sad lot in a melancholy solitude, the heart- 
 less Fitzgeorge sat surrounded by his flatterers
 
 158 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 and friends, for he was one who could not 
 distinguish friendship from flattery, and who 
 thought that there was no friendship where there 
 was no flattery. 
 
 " We have dismissed her/' said Fitzmaurice, 
 laughingly, "and a finer scene I never saw. 
 She must go back to the stage, for she is sur- 
 prisingly improved in acting. She may at first 
 undergo a little hissing from the puritanical 
 geese, who have no other virtue about them 
 than hissing at vice; but when they see how 
 well able she is to entertain them by her dra- 
 matic talents, they will suffer their moral cen- 
 sures to be outvoted by their scenic applause." 
 
 " So as she annoys me not again," said Fitz- 
 george, " she may go whither she pleases, to 
 the stage or to the — " 
 
 Fitzgeorge paused, and gave a significant 
 look towards an individual of the party, who 
 was as unlike a clergyman as a man in a black 
 coat possibly could be. This reverend gentle- 
 man, for reverend he certainly was according to
 
 FITZGEORGE, 159 
 
 law, had once professed as the law directs, that 
 he believed himself moved by the Holy Ghost 
 to take upon himself the function and office of a 
 clergyman; and the bishop believed him and 
 laid holy hands upon him accordingly ; and he 
 forthwith became a teacher of morality, for 
 which he was as well qualified as a lame man is 
 to be a dancing-master : in other words, he was 
 more capable of performing his duty by precept 
 than by example. He was of course a bit of a 
 priest, but he was also a bit of a bully and a bit 
 of a blackleg. He could read prayers ; he had 
 read prayers and had kept his countenance the 
 while. He had written pious cogitations in a 
 Sunday newspaper, and he had laughed at them 
 among his friends, for fear he should be by them 
 suspected of any temporary lapse into what that 
 coterie considered the unpardonable sin of piety. 
 He had slipped occasionally into the venial trans- 
 gression of intoxication, and had quarrelled, 
 and had called his man out and had shot at 
 him, but missed him. This reverend gentleman's
 
 160 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 qualifications, which rendered him an acceptable 
 and favoured companion to Fitzgeorge, might 
 have been equalled or exceeded by many others, 
 but the graces of his mind received in the eyes 
 of Fitzgeorge an additional piquancy from the 
 clerical character which he bore. Oaths, drink- 
 ing, gambling and duelling, are to men of Fitz- 
 george's taste interesting in a layman, but more 
 particularly so in a clergyman. To this gentle- 
 man Fitzgeorge directed his eyes significantly 
 when he paused with an unfinished sentence. 
 
 " It would be an affront to your cloth, Brad- 
 ley/' continued Fitzgeorge, after a moment's 
 pause, " to speak of the devil in your com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Make no stranger of me," said Bradley, 
 " only if you must mention any friend of mine? 
 let it be respectfully." 
 
 " Respectfully enough I think it is mentioned 
 in company with so lovely a creature as Juliet," 
 said Sir William Dangle with a sort of sigh, 
 intimating that if the lady were to descend to
 
 FITZGEORGE. 161 
 
 the personage in question he should have little 
 objection to be of the party. 
 
 " What a pity it is Dangle that you did not 
 accompany her to town ! Suppose she should 
 be met and robbed on Hounslow Heath," said 
 Bradley. 
 
 " On that supposition," said Fitzgeorge, 
 " Dangle would think it no pity to be absent." 
 
 Dangle attempted to frown and look big, but 
 the insipidity of his features prevented the one, 
 and the subserviency of his spirit prevented the 
 other. 
 
 " Come," continued Fitzgeorge, " if the bot- 
 tle moves no quicker we shall part sober." 
 
 u In which case," said Drury Borrowman, 
 " we had better not part at all. Such is the 
 tenderness of my nature that I cannot bear to 
 part from dear friends, and I therefore am gene- 
 rally carried from them by main force." 
 
 " What is the toast ?" said Bradley. 
 
 " Variety !" exclaimed Fitzgeorge, " suppose 
 we drink it in pint bumpers."
 
 162 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 " It would be more appropriately drunk in 
 variety/' quoth Borrowman. 
 
 " Excellently well said," exclaimed Fitz- 
 george. " Excellently well said/' exclaimed the 
 rest of the party. 
 
 The wines were mingled. " Let us drink the 
 toast with spirit/' said Bradley. The brandy 
 was not omitted. The large goblets were lifted 
 high in triumph. The villainous mixture was 
 quaffed. Down fell many a glass. Down 
 dropped many a jaw. Eyes wandered, tongues 
 tripped ; lights twinkled ; round spun the room, 
 and the party parted after the usual style. 
 Those were glorious days !
 
 FITZGEORGE. 163 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 EMBARRASSMENT. 
 
 "Am I not happy now?" said Fitzgeorge, 
 as he woke next day with a burning brow and 
 feverish headache. " Am I not happy now ? " 
 said Fitzgeorge, as certain twinges of remorse 
 came over him for his cruelty to the abandoned 
 Juliet. " Am I not happy now ? " said Fitz- 
 george, as there came into his mind the thought 
 that he must this day meet his steward, and 
 with him discuss certain financial matters more 
 necessary than pleasing. " No," answered the 
 headache. a No," answered the name of Juliet. 
 u No/' answered the financial embarrassments.
 
 164 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 Owing, perad venture, to the paternal mild- 
 ness of the British Government, and to the un- 
 paralleled condescension of the British aristo- 
 cracy, a certain set of low-minded plebeians, 
 called tradesmen, whose proper business it is to 
 administer to the necessities, and to admire in 
 speechless awe and with distant reverence the 
 magnificence of their superiors, have of late 
 years, much to the injury of religion and good 
 order, taken it into their heads that they ought 
 to be paid for those things in which they mi- 
 nister to the aristocracy. They manage these 
 things better in Ireland, where the demand for 
 debt is met by a challenge to single combat, 
 and better still in Turkey, where the bastinado 
 is a receipt in full of all demands. Never can 
 the beauties of our glorious constitution be too 
 much extolled. 
 
 " I will see him at four o'clock," said Fitz- 
 george to his valet, who announced the arrival 
 of the steward. 
 
 " I will see him at six," said Fitzgeorge at 
 four o'clock.
 
 FITZGEORGE. 165 
 
 " T will see him after dinner, " said Fitzgeorge 
 at six o'clock. Seeing after dinner was with 
 him a matter of great uncertainty, he might see 
 two stewards, or he might see none at all. 
 Putting off the meeting from day to day did 
 not mend the matter, it added more items to the 
 account and rendered the discussion less agree- 
 able by previously irritating and unhinging the 
 mind. People began to talk ; — people will talk, 
 which is all owing to the great condescension 
 of the aristocracy who let them talk. Trades- 
 men began to grumble ; — that also may be at- 
 tributed to the condescension of the aristocracy. 
 
 When the interview could be no longer de- 
 layed Fitzgeorge consented to see his steward. 
 The most homely proverbs are generally the 
 most frequently applicable, they become homely 
 from that cause. Applicable in the present in- 
 stance is the proverb which says, " One man 
 may lead a horse to water, but ten cannot make 
 him drink. " Fitzgeorge was persuaded to see 
 his steward, and the steward came, bringing
 
 166 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 with him serious looking books, serious looking 
 bills, and a serious looking face. 
 
 "Well, sir," said Fitzgeorge. 
 
 The steward bowed and looked as serious as 
 an undertaker. Then opening his books and 
 spreading his bills on the table, he was pre- 
 paring to commence a solemn harangue on the 
 sad necessities of the case. Fitzgeorge hastily 
 interrupted him saying, " What's all this to 
 me ? These matters ought to be settled without 
 any reference to me. It is giving me much 
 needless trouble." 
 
 " But, sir," said the steward, " if you will con- 
 descend to look into the state of your affairs — " 
 
 " Pish," said Fitzgeorge, " I must beg of you 
 not to annoy me with this kind of prate. I was 
 not educated for an accountant, and am not 
 dexterous at such matters. If tradesmen bring 
 in their bills and you have money, pay them — 
 if not, they must wait." 
 
 " They have waited, sir," replied the steward. 
 
 " Then let them wait a little longer." 

 
 FITZGEORGE. 167 
 
 " They have waited as long as they possibly 
 can/' answered the steward ; " and they begin 
 to be veiy clamorous." 
 
 " Must you be clamorous, therefore?" 
 
 The steward spread out his hands and looked 
 at the books and at the bills, and fixing, at last, 
 his inquiring eyes on his master, said, " What 
 must be done ? " 
 
 This was a question that the steward could 
 more easily ask, than Fitzgeorge could answer. 
 
 "It will not do," said the steward, " to tell 
 them that they will never be paid." 
 
 " It will certainly not do to tell them so," re- 
 plied Fitzgeorge. 
 
 " But they will begin to suspect it, and they 
 will be reluctant to supply the establishment. 
 Notice has also been given of a bond to a very 
 inconvenient amount, and threats have been 
 held out of applying to Lord Fitzgeorge." 
 
 At the name of the bond which he had given 
 to Juliet, and at the thought of another which 
 he had given to Isabella, a greater degree of
 
 168 F1TZGE0RGE. 
 
 perplexity took possession of his mind than was 
 quite consistent with his notions of happiness. 
 Marvellous it is to those who do not think until 
 they deeply feel, that the very circumstance 
 which seemed to promise their greatest security 
 and completest enjoyment should prove a source 
 of pain and perplexity. So it was with Fitz- 
 george. When he first emerged from his mi- 
 nority and became possessed of a splendid in- 
 come, he thought, of course, that he was des- 
 tined to the enjoyment of every thing which 
 money could purchase ; and so he was ; but he 
 forgot that money could not purchase every 
 thing. Money will not purchase prudence, and 
 without prudence the greatest wealth will bring 
 the greatest poverty. He is a great simpleton 
 who imagines that the chief power of wealth is 
 to supply wants. In ninety-nine cases out of a 
 hundred, it creates more wants than it supplies. 
 Keen are the pangs of hunger, and sad is the 
 spirit of him who is sinking into an early grave 
 for want of the common necessaries of life, but
 
 FITZGEORGE. 169 
 
 not less keen are the mortifications and cares of 
 him who, nursed in ease and luxury, is thrown 
 by circumstances into dark perplexities which 
 his mental indolence cannot unravel, and who 
 is reduced even to an apprehension of the want 
 of those luxuries which were to him more than 
 life- The poor man who lives by bread alone, 
 lives for life alone ; it is enough for him to be ; 
 but the rich man lives for more — for much more 
 than mere life — for honour and reputation — for 
 the eyes and thoughts of others ; and to him well- 
 being is more than being. The utmost that a poor 
 man can suffer from the most abject, scorned, 
 and deserted poverty, is to die for want ; but 
 men in the highest spheres of human life suffer 
 many a living death. Can any one think for a 
 moment of comparing the pinings of want, 
 which come gradually and gently on the sinking 
 spirit, with the agonies of heart which he suffers 
 who has wrecked his fortune on the gaming- 
 table ? Want merely unties the cords of life ; 
 but disappointment, mortification, embarrass- 
 
 VOL. I. i
 
 170 F1TZGEOKGE. 
 
 ment of circumstances, rends them with a hard 
 convulsive wrench, for the expression of which 
 imagination can find no adequate figures. 
 
 Fitzgeorge, then, in the presence of his stew- 
 ard, was not happy, very far indeed was he from 
 happiness. He began inwardly to curse the 
 perplexities of wealth, and, for a moment, to 
 envy the lot of those who, having a necessity to 
 earn their daily living, have an occupation in 
 their daily labour, and a pleasure in procuring 
 the means of pleasure and enjoyment. But 
 these feelings soon experienced a revulsion. He 
 began to philosophize, according to his notions 
 of philosophy, and the result of this philoso- 
 phizing was a still farther hardening of his heart 
 against the feelings of others. 
 
 * e These fellows,'* said he to his steward, 
 " dare not for their lives presume on the im- 
 pertinence of a personal annoyance ; they may 
 send their insolent papers to you, and you may 
 burn them." 
 
 a But it is very distressing to me" —
 
 FITZGEORGE. 171 
 
 " Silence, fellow, what are your distresses to 
 me?" 
 
 The distresses of his steward were something 
 to Fitzgeorge, and he felt that they were when 
 the mention of them excited his anger. Soft- 
 ening down a little, he continued, " And why 
 should you be distressed or concerned for these 
 matters ?" 
 
 " I feel concerned," said the steward with 
 most reverent inclination of the head, u for my 
 worthy master's honour." 
 
 " Honour !" replied Fitzgeorge, in a tone of 
 slow contempt, " what have people of that des- 
 cription to do with honour V 
 
 After a little pause the patient steward pushed 
 the books towards Fitzgeorge, and meekly said, 
 " Will you be graciously pleased, Sir, to conde- 
 scend to cast your eye over these memoran- 
 dums, and to suggest to your servant what 
 is best to be done in the present posture of 
 affairs?" 
 
 u 1 have no suggestions to make/' said Fitz- 
 i2
 
 172 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 george, "it is really very offensive to be an- 
 noyed by such people." 
 
 For awhile, however, he made an effort and 
 showed some symptoms of attention to the mat- 
 ters before him. He looked at divers bills, he 
 turned over many leaves in his steward's books. 
 He listened patiently or rather passively, to the 
 arithmetical prate of the exact man of accounts. 
 The result of all this was to leave him precisely in 
 the same situation as it found him, that is to 
 say, with a conviction that his debts were nu- 
 merous, his tradesmen clamorous, his expenses 
 beyond his means, and that he knew not what 
 remedy to find or make for all these grievances. 
 Then pride was galled, confidence was shaken, 
 hope abated, and the insolence of a haughty 
 spirit was made to bite the dust. 
 
 Being at length left alone to the companion- 
 ship of his own thoughts, he turned over in his 
 mind many devices whereby to extricate himself 
 from present annoyances, and to provide, if pos- 
 sible, against the repetition of them. " I was
 
 FITZGEORGE. 173 
 
 wrong," said he to himself, " in my computa- 
 tion of the unmixed happiness which awaited 
 me. I mistook the means of enjoyment for en- 
 joyment itself. I regarded a princely income 
 as an inexhausible income, I thought that be- 
 cause I could command much, I could command 
 everything. I have so far deceived myself, and 
 perhaps I have suffered my friends to aid in the 
 deception. No man, perhaps, can be deceived 
 by others till he first deceives himself. Yet 
 what avail my rank, my fortune, my expecta- 
 tions, my high consideration in society, if I am 
 nevertheless under the necessity of stooping and 
 bending myself down to the trammels of a mer- 
 cantile computation and prudential management 
 of my affairs. I thought that I had nothing to do 
 but to desire, and to have my desires satisfied ; 
 that I had only to name my wants to have those 
 wants removed. Juliet's bond too ! There I 
 was indeed a simpleton. I would not for a 
 world have the world know how mortified I feel 
 at the recollection of the folly of my fondness
 
 174 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 for that feeble creature. Ob, she has wearied 
 me with her ill-disguised adulation. I love the 
 incense of flattery, but I am disgusted with the 
 clumsiness that offers it so crudely and so 
 grossly. Her bond indeed ! Why the poor 
 fool would even now let me have it again. I 
 have only to ask for it and I may have it. Ay, 
 is there meanness in the thought? But who 
 shall dare accuse me of meanness ? Who can 
 look on me, formed in the fairest symmetry, 
 graceful in every movement, honoured and idol- 
 ized wherever I turn, the envy and admiration 
 of all eyes, and call me mean ! The world will 
 find a thousand excuses for me more ingeniously 
 and readily than I can find them for myself. 
 The world has indeed a strange mode of mea- 
 suring out its justice ; for ten guineas ingeniously 
 given where there is neither claim nor expecta- 
 tion, I may purchase a reputation for generosity 
 which thousands withheld, where there is a claim, 
 will not be able to cancel." 
 
 Fitzgeorge pursued his soliloquy, and medi-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 175 
 
 tated on the resources of those who, having no 
 resources, continue to live on a par with those 
 who have. He thought of the turf and the 
 gaming-table, of the many ingenious devices 
 which men, who pass tolerably well in the world, 
 tolerably, that is to say, in such society as Fitz- 
 george was in the habit of keeping, have at 
 various times had recourse to in order to reple- 
 nish a consumptive purse, or bolster up a sink- 
 ing credit. It occurred to him that there were 
 many stratagems that might be used which as 
 yet had not been used, and which might be used 
 with good success. It is an erroneous notion 
 which is entertained by many persons in the 
 middling and humbler walks of life, that the 
 higher and titled classes have nothing to do but 
 to devise means and modes of spending money, 
 and that they have no trouble to procure it, nor 
 any anxiety and care about its regular and con- 
 stant supply. Tis quite the reverse ; they have 
 no trouble as to the means of disposing of it, 
 but often they have very great difficulty and
 
 176 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 perplexity as to the means of obtaining it. You 
 see a splendid carriage standing at the door of a 
 magnificent mansion, many servants in livery 
 about the entrance of the house and carriage ; 
 these servants are in lively conversation with 
 each other ; presently my lord makes his appear- 
 ance, — all is silence and obsequiousness, six or 
 eight human beings seem to be worshipping 
 one, the carriage looks a remarkably easy one, 
 the coachman is a portly man, and the horses 
 lead a fine holiday life. The blind beggar who 
 stands by the way side, assisted by a little dog 
 that holds in its mouth the battered crown of a 
 greasy hat, has not a tithe of that anxiety for 
 the means of procuring a dinner which the no- 
 bleman, who looks so placidly, has for getting 
 rid of some villainous incumbrance which is 
 eating out his very vitals and wasting away his 
 life day after day. 
 
 This was a kind of care which Fitzgeorge had 
 not contemplated or anticipated, and when he 
 laid down his plan of life and looked from the
 
 FITZGEORGE. 177 
 
 gay portals of his youth through the long vista 
 of coming years, he saw all bright and clear 
 before him. Tis true that he heard of the 
 poverty of the rich and the necessities of the 
 splendid, but then he had seen them gay, laugh- 
 ing, lively, always apparently at their ease, as if 
 mocking fate and fortune. He did not know 
 what bitterness of heart lay concealed beneath 
 those smiles. He now began to experience it, 
 but this did not soften his heart or the more 
 humanize his soul, rather was it the means of 
 inducing him, after the manner of Pharaoh, to 
 harden his heart still more. Pride and sensu- 
 ality, two strong passions of our nature, have, 
 when indulged in without restraint, a sad pro- 
 pensity to degrade and injure the soul; but 
 when persisted in systematically, they are by 
 some accident thwarted and opposed, then there 
 springs up a bitter and malignant feeling in the 
 mind which quite uuhumauizes the man. And 
 he that is not at peace with himself is not at 
 peace with the world ; he has no regard for the 
 i3
 
 178 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 well-being of others, he has no consideration for 
 them, but rather looks upon them as his enemies 
 and uses them accordingly. So it may be found 
 in every class of life, from the highest to the 
 lowest, that they who directly or indirectly 
 plunder and prey upon their fellow men, are 
 such as have been disappointed, thwarted, or 
 opposed in their sensuality or pride.
 
 FITZGEORGE. 179 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 STRATAGEMS. 
 
 It is a hard thing for a man to be forced to 
 live upon his wits who has no wits to live upon. 
 But this is seldom the case ; wit of some kind 
 or other most men have, and even if nature have 
 given them none, necessity will supply the 
 deficiency. There is wit of various kinds, from 
 the highest degree of intellectual discernment 
 and sagacity, down to the lowest and dirtiest 
 degree of craft and cunning. There is wit in 
 the elbow of the gambler and in the fingers of 
 the pick-pocket. There is wit in well-balancing 
 the betting-book and in devising some scheme
 
 180 PITZGEORGE. 
 
 whereby that which shall seem chance to the 
 loser is certainty to the winner. It is not, per- 
 haps, quite so easy as some persons imagine, 
 to draw the precise line between skill and craft. 
 A definition may, indeed, be given in so many 
 words, but there is a difficulty to make particu- 
 lar and individual cases square exactly with 
 that definition. Almost every new case requires 
 a new law ; the whole system of human society 
 is a sort of jockey club, and all the vast appa- 
 ratus of legislation is but a multiform and com- 
 plex contrivance to guard against foul play. 
 The distinction between cheating and outwitting 
 is remarkably fine, and, perhaps, in many minds 
 is rather evanescent and shifting. He who has 
 few wants and many means of supplying them 
 is far more fastidious in the matter of honesty, 
 than he who has many wants and few means of 
 supplying them. It is, however, necessary for 
 the keeping of society together, that there 
 should be something like principle everywhere 
 and in all social transactions, so that while we
 
 FITZGEOEGE. 181 
 
 find among honest people more roguery than 
 we had expected, we find among rogues more 
 honesty than we had expected. 
 
 Fitzgeorge had horses at Newmarket. They 
 had serv r ed him for playthings and as topics of 
 talk. He had at Ascot and at Newmarket been 
 familiar with the principal sporting characters 
 high and low, more especially the latter. There 
 was a pungency and piquancy in the style of 
 this kind of society which was an exquisite re- 
 lief to the more reserved and formal intercourse 
 of the metropolis. He had won and lost at dif- 
 ferent times, but had not kept any exact record 
 of either winnings or losings. Perhaps he had 
 a stronger recollection of his losings than of his 
 winnings, inasmuch as the former were more 
 disagreeable than the latter, and therefore made 
 a deeper impression ; for as every one expects 
 to win, losing produces a shock of disappoint- 
 ment and mortification. He knew that many 
 frequented Newmarket whose only income was 
 the produce of their wits, and he supposed very
 
 182 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 naturally that some of his losses had been the 
 consequence more of the superior dexterity of the 
 winner, than of the regular chapter of accidents. 
 It now came to the turn of Fitzgeorge to avai . 
 himself of those little irregularities of arrange- 
 ment by which chance is made certain, and by 
 which the blind goddess is persuaded to lift up 
 the bandage from one corner of her eye, and 
 cast a look of partiality to some ingenious votary 
 of hers. He had a horse entered to run at 
 Newmarket, so great a favourite, that scarcely a 
 single bet could be got against it. But know- 
 ing ones are sometimes taken in, and so it hap- 
 pened in the present instance. This most won- 
 derful horse, on which the most sagacious and 
 experienced men at Newmarket would have 
 staked their whole fortune, did by some caprice 
 of fortune, or by some mismanagement, or by 
 some management, lose the race. 
 
 Fitzgeorge himself was on the ground, watch- 
 ing the race with an anxious eye. He had some 
 few bets on the favourite, not many, though it
 
 FITZGEORGE. 183 
 
 was afterwards ascertained that he might have 
 had more if he would. The few that he had, of 
 course he lost; but instead of congratulating 
 himself on his good fortune that he lost no 
 more, he was exceedingly angry that he lost. 
 He cursed the horse, and he cursed his stars, 
 and he cursed the jockey, and he cursed those 
 who won his money, and he cursed himself who 
 lost it. So many and so various curses seldom 
 at one time, and on one occasion, pass the lips 
 of one individual, as at this time and on this 
 occasion passed the lips of the Honourable Au- 
 gustus Fitzgeorge. They who were about him 
 on the turf, knowing his imperious disposition 
 and the impatience with which he bore the 
 slightest opposition to his will, or contradiction 
 of his humour, were not a little amused at the 
 towering passion into which he was most gra- 
 ciously pleased to put himself on the present 
 occasion. Then, when this wonderful horse had 
 lost, the knowing ones began to find out that 
 they had suspected beforehand that it must be
 
 184 FITZGEOltGE. 
 
 so. They were like certain ingenious politicians 
 who, prophesying what will come to pass, 
 never tell their prophecies till the event is 
 found to coincide with the prophecy. Then it 
 was discovered that the horse had been exces- 
 sively overrated; many said that they would 
 have betted more against it, if they could have 
 found takers. Verily it was a marvellous thing 
 that, before the horse did run, there should be 
 so few betters against it ; and that after it had 
 run, there should be a complaint that there were 
 so few takers against it. 
 
 Another chance, however, was to be given 
 to the unfortunate animal, in order that it 
 might regain its lost reputation. To gain a re- 
 putation is a very difficult task ; but to regain 
 
 reputation is almost next to impossible. It is 
 so with human beings, and, perhaps, the gen- 
 tlemen of the turf who know as much of horse- 
 flesh as they do of human nature, if not more, 
 thought that it was thus with horses ; for they, 
 one and all, dissuaded Fitzgeorge from ventur-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 185 
 
 ing a second time the animal which had de- 
 ceived him once. But he would not be moved ; 
 he felt confident, he said, that it would win the 
 next time, and he was ready to back his opinion 
 to any amount. However, when certain odds 
 were offered, he seemed to be rather shy of 
 taking; and the prudent ones commended him 
 for being content with his first loss. Even the 
 jockey who was to ride, did not seem very ready 
 to take the bets that were offered him. So the 
 late favourite was at a miserable discount. 
 
 Every mouth was now loudly opened against 
 the unfortunate beast, and most absurdly extra- 
 vagant odds were offered, which seemed to be 
 almost as absurdly refused. Just before start- 
 ing, however, Fitzgeorge, by way of obliging 
 some particular friends who were anxious for 
 the honour of beings in the books of so great a 
 man, took a few bets that were offered to him, 
 and as he seemed exceedingly indifferent, and 
 betting, as it were, in despair, he had at length 
 a very pretty book to shew with very pretty and
 
 186 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 responsible names embellishing it. He looked 
 as demure and dull as if he had no concern in 
 the business of the turf; and when the signal 
 was given and the horses started, he scarcely 
 looked towards the course, and only woke from 
 his reverie when, to the astonishment of all con- 
 cerned, and apparently as much to his own as- 
 tonishment, his horse was declared the winner. 
 Then he very smilingly received the congratu- 
 lations of his friends, and he was once more at 
 his ease again. 
 
 Fitzgeorge was not quite so well pleased a few 
 minutes after the race as he had been immedi- 
 ately on its termination. He was not left quite 
 alone, but by some queer accident, of course he 
 could not think it anything but accident, but 
 so it happened, that those who usually on these 
 occasions attended him into the town eagerly 
 conversing with him, and delighting in the no- 
 tice which he might condescend to take of 
 them, now were conversing with one another 
 and were apart from him. He might have
 
 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 187 
 
 joined the party, but he was a proud man, and 
 thought it rather their business to pay court to 
 him than his to pay court to them. Yet he 
 could not help, in spite of himself, casting now 
 and then a sidelong and significant look towards 
 the group, which look of his they saw r and un- 
 derstood. Presently the party separated a 
 little, and one or another joined conversation 
 with him. Amongst them was Colonel Fitz- 
 maurice, who pushing his horse between Fitz- 
 george and a plebeian black-leg, who was riding 
 in proud familiarity by his side, abruptly 
 said, 
 
 " Rather lucky to-day." 
 
 " Better than I had reason to expect," replied 
 Fitzgeorge, constrainedly. 
 
 " You did not expect to win?" 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " And I suppose you did not expect to lose 
 the first race ?" 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 " Capital horse that of yours, worth its weight
 
 188 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 in gold. Worth all the rest of your stud. You 
 would not part with him for a trifle. " 
 
 " For a trifle I certainly would not. He ought 
 to have won the first day," said Fitzgeorge. 
 
 " So I thought," replied the colonel, " and 
 so thought everybody, I believe, but there are 
 some horses that will win and lose just as they 
 please ; I think I could make a princely fortune 
 with such a horse as that, if I always knew when 
 it would win and when it would lose." 
 
 Others of the party joined them, and the con- 
 versation became general. Not a word more 
 was said about the race, and in the evening 
 Fitzgeorge found himself in rather humbler 
 company than usual at the hazard table. If he 
 had won every shilling that the whole party was 
 worth it would have been but of little service to 
 him. He retired therefore early in some degree 
 
 of disgust. 
 
 Another race-day remained, but he attended 
 
 it not. He vanished early in the morning and 
 
 dined that day in London, knowing what it is
 
 FITZGEORGE. 189 
 
 to have a smiling face wherewithal to cover an 
 aching heart. Now again there came to his 
 recollection the dismal view which the gloomy- 
 philosopher had taken of human life. But he 
 was not convinced that this was a correct view. 
 It is true that just at the present moment he 
 felt himself not at ease with himself; he had 
 been using a stratagem, an artifice, a trick, and 
 he more than suspected that it was seen through. 
 Here was a double, a triple, a quadruple morti- 
 fication ; he was mortified and annoyed at his 
 own want of dexterity, that he had not been 
 able to manage the matter better ; he had for- 
 gotten that he was surrounded by keener eyes 
 and longer heads than his own ; he was mor- 
 tified at the decided manner in which it seemed 
 to be taken up by the party at Newmarket, who 
 were in general so exceedingly obsequious to 
 him. It was a sad mortification to be looked 
 down upon by those who had been habituated 
 to look up to him ; saddest of all, however, 
 was the thought that when settling-day should
 
 190 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 arrive he might have no plea for refusing to pay 
 his losses, and no claim whereon to demand his 
 winnings. He was annoyed not a little at the 
 rude familiarity of Fitzmaurice, whom he could 
 not so easily repel and wither by neglect as he 
 could many others. Fitzmaurice could take 
 liberties which no other man could. Thus in a 
 comparatively short space of time, Fitzgeorge 
 made the discovery that it was possible for a 
 young man of high family, of large fortune, of 
 elegant manners, of great political influence, of 
 remarkably handsome person, and in the stu- 
 dious and careful pursuit of pleasure, and only 
 pleasure, to be involved in circumstances of mi- 
 serable perplexity and most irritating annoyance. 
 Had any one at the very commencement of his 
 career told him, that a time was not far distant 
 when money and reputation should both at once 
 fail him, he would have regarded the prophet 
 with utter incredulity. Into this perplexity, 
 however, he was now brought, and he saw no 
 immediate means of extricating himself.
 
 F1TZGEORGE. ]9l 
 
 The effect of all this was not to give him 
 more rational and consistent ideas of human life 
 and its interests, but to determine him to a still 
 more studious and decided pursuit of his own 
 peculiar pleasure and enjoyment. He did not 
 learn wisdom from experience, but was the more 
 confirmed in his folly of expecting even yet un- 
 mingled pleasure. It is true that he felt op- 
 pressed by present dejections, and embarrassed 
 by present difficulties ; but he had hopes, even 
 good hopes, of surmounting present difficulties, 
 and of rising above his present dejection. He 
 had still all the elasticity of youthful hope, and 
 though so far he had found some little practical 
 contradiction to the notion which he entertained 
 that he was destined only to the enjoyment of 
 unmixed pleasure, yet he regarded this as merely 
 an accidental occurrence, not likely to be re- 
 pealed, and far from being the natural and un- 
 avoidable condition of his situation and moral 
 temperament. That fine and invaluable lesson 
 which nature means to teach the luxurious and
 
 192 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 the sensual through the pains and mortifications 
 which luxury and indulgence inflict, Fitzgeorge 
 had not the wisdom to learn or the faith to be- 
 lieve ; for Nature, when it visits the sensualist 
 and the luxurious with sadness, perplexity, and 
 ennui, means by that sad discipline to inform 
 them that such is the condition of human life, 
 that we have only to choose between the in- 
 voluntary pains which spring from indulgence, 
 selfishness, and indolence, and the voluntary 
 pains of mental diligence, thought, and moral 
 application, which will most certainly be fol- 
 lowed by a fairer enjoyment of pleasure, or by 
 that moral energy which bears up against ad- 
 versity, converting sorrow itself into a blessing, 
 by the fortitude with which it is met and endured. 
 The settling-day at Tattersall's was near at 
 hand. Fitzgeorge had many of those things 
 which the world calls friends, but not one of them 
 had .mentioned the matter to him. In fact, no 
 mortal being can be a friend to him who is no 
 friend himself; but the courtesy of human Ian-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 193 
 
 guage requires the frequent use of the word 
 friend ; and as it is most frequently used with 
 greater latitude than accuracy, let it pass and 
 be used in this narrative, as it is all the world 
 over. Fitzmaurice, however, the boldest and 
 most careless of all who called themselves 
 friends, and aspired to an intimate familiarity 
 with Fitzgeorge, presented himself the day be- 
 fore settling-day, and without any preface said, 
 " Do you go to Tattersall's ? " 
 
 The question was put in such a manner that 
 Fitzgeorge understood it perfectly well, and 
 with the understanding; of it there entered into 
 his mind a feeling of as deep mortification and 
 bitter annoyance, as ever human being endured. 
 Although mental pain is far more acute and 
 distressing than bodily pain, yet when mental 
 pain is at the greatest, it then produces a degree 
 of bodily pain. Fitzgeorge felt this ; — his 
 pride was wounded, stung, agonised. He 
 felt himself to be prodigiously little. Fond 
 as he was of pomp and show and gorgeous de- 
 
 VOL. I. k
 
 ]94 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 coration, he could not at this moment hare 
 enjoyed all the pomp and splendour which the 
 east showers upon her barbarous monarchs; 
 for it was not merely for the sake of his own eye 
 that he loved splendour, he had regard to the 
 eyes, the envy, the approbation of others, and 
 he felt that it would be a miserable mockery to 
 be surrounded with splendour, while he himself, 
 the centre of all that brilliance, w r as an obj ect 
 of scorn and contempt. For a moment he was 
 humbled, and he humbled himself to say to 
 Fitzmaurice, " What would you advise ? " 
 
 " I would advise you to stay at home," was 
 the reply. 
 
 a The bets were fairly won," said Fitzgeorge. 
 
 u There are differences of opinion on that 
 topic," replied the colonel ; "and I can tell 
 you that the fellow who rode your horse has 
 undergone an examination before the Jockey 
 Club." 
 
 H Well," replied Fitzgeorge, affecting a great 
 degree of indifference.
 
 FtTZGEORGE. 195 
 
 " Tis not well," said the colonel, " I am com- 
 missioned to inform you that you are no longer 
 a member of the Jockey Club." 
 
 Fitzgeorge was pale with anger. " How were 
 the votes?" 
 
 u We never tell tales out of school." 
 
 K 2
 
 196 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A VISIT FROM MR. GRAVES. 
 
 That a young man in the morning of life should 
 be out of spirits, that a man of large fortune 
 should be in want of money, that a person of 
 high rank should be in deep disgrace, that a 
 studious and attentive pursuer of pleasure, 
 having all the apparent means of pleasure in 
 his possession, should not only miss the object 
 of his pursuit, but bring himself into trouble 
 and annoyance, was perplexing indeed and pa- 
 radoxical to Fitzgeorge, who could scarcely un- 
 derstand his own situation. He had indeed left 
 his paternal roof, and so far was removed from
 
 TITZGEORGE. 197 
 
 paternal restraint ; but he yet stood somewhat 
 in awe of paternal admonition, for he knew not 
 where to look but to his father's purse to supply 
 his present deficiencies, and to help him through 
 his present difficulties. He was extremely re- 
 luctant to make the application, for he was sure 
 of reproof, but not sure of relief. Lord Fitz- 
 george, the father of our hero, was an ordinary 
 man in extraordinary circumstances, having a 
 little mind but great wealth and power, deep in 
 a fox-like cunning, but not profound in real 
 thought; quick in conception, hasty in utter- 
 ance, seeing well what he saw at all, but not 
 seeing much; loving power and all that gave 
 or strengthened power, therefore loving money, 
 which gives power to any rank of life, and the 
 want of which takes power from the highest : 
 he knew that a rich peasant has more power 
 than a poor lord ; and as he loved wealth and 
 power with an equal and undivided affection, he 
 loved them alike even to their minutest fractions ; 
 his fingers disdained not the touch of copper,
 
 198 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 and he was not satisfied with the mere homage 
 of his tenants, unless he knew that the meanest 
 scullion in his kitchen was also conscious of 
 his power. He loved power with so hearty 
 an attachment, that he was not satisfied with 
 the possession and exercise of it during the time 
 of his natural life, with the certainty of trans- 
 ferring it to his posterity j he would fain have 
 it buried with him, and was absolutely jealous 
 of his heir. After the manner of all little minds 
 he made a fuss about everything, he could take 
 nothing coolly ; so that in fact he could hardly 
 be said to use wealth and power so much as to 
 be used by them, they were not so much his as 
 he was theirs ; he had not a power over power. 
 Thus also he was, like a weak and silly lover, 
 jealous where there was no real ground for jea- 
 lousy ; showing his weakness where he thought 
 that he was displaying his power ; losing the 
 substance for the sake of the shadow of homage ; 
 using ever a kind of left-handed cunning which 
 he mistook for wisdom. He was also mightily
 
 F1TZGE0RGE. 199 
 
 religious withal — made his appearance very re- 
 gularly at church, attracting the eyes of the 
 congregation by the loudness with which he 
 made the responses, as if he had been candidate 
 for the place of parish clerk, criticizing sermons 
 and detecting all traces of false doctrine ; yet so 
 impatient of being preached to, that he would 
 express manifest symptoms of weariness, if the 
 discourse lasted beyond a certain number of 
 minutes. He would, had it been possible, have 
 been parson and clerk too in his own church. 
 Like many other persons whose religion is of 
 this noisy kind, he made great secular use of 
 his religion, and on the strength of it dogmatized 
 much on other matters. The undefined syllo- 
 gism which passed through the mind of Lord 
 Fitzgeorge on the subject of religion was some- 
 thing like the following : It is right to be reli- 
 gious, I am religious, therefore I am right, and 
 if am right, nothing that I say, think, or do, 
 can be wrong; but if nothing that I say, think, 
 or do, can be wrong, they who say, think, or
 
 200 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 do, that which is contrary to my notions must 
 be wrong. Hence there is a pleasant amd inex- 
 haustible topic of apology for all manner of 
 impertinent interference with others, and as this 
 interference is generally more or less resented, 
 hence there arises a spirit of waspishness and 
 irritability. 
 
 Now this Lord Fitzgeorge had a confidential 
 and favourite servant, or steward, called Mr. 
 Graves, and to this servant, so far as his lord- 
 ship could entrust or confide any thing, he trusted 
 the management of his estates and the receipt of 
 his rents. Man and master seemed to be made 
 for each other ; there certainly was a difference 
 in their characters, but this difference was but 
 necessary for their relative situations. Mr. 
 Graves was born of honest parents, and had re- 
 ceived an education which fitted him, in all re- 
 spects, for the situation which he held under 
 Lord Fitzgeorge. He resembled his master in 
 his love of power, but he and his master did not 
 quarrel on this point ; for instead of entertaining
 
 FITZGEORGE. 201 
 
 any feeling of jealousy towards each other, they 
 found that their power was mutually strength- 
 ened ; for Mr. Graves had no power except what 
 he acquired under the patronage and in the ser- 
 vice of Lord Fitzgeorge ; and his lordship also 
 found that his power was increased and strength- 
 ened by the faithful services of Mr. Graves. — 
 When Mr. Graves first came into the service of 
 Lord Fitzgeorge he was a very young man, but 
 had nothing youthful about him save the date of 
 his birth. He was as cool-headed and sedate as 
 a man of sixty. He had no other passion than 
 the love of ruling ; and so well and heartily did 
 he love to rule, that for this purpose he would 
 submit himself, with the most perfect elasticity 
 of obedience, to all the commands and caprices 
 of Lord Fitzgeorge. There seemed to be on 
 either side a sort of understanding that they were 
 essential to one another ; and each submitted to 
 be made a tool of, while each thought that he 
 was out-witting the other. Lord Fitzgeorge 
 never undertook any thing in the management 
 k3
 
 202 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 of his estates, or the disposal of his family, with- 
 out first consulting Mr, Graves. This consulta- 
 tion, however, was not for the purpose of asking 
 advice, but to be more firmly fixed in his own 
 opinion, by the additional suffrage of another. 
 Mr. Graves found his situation as steward to 
 Lord Fitzgeorge by no means a sinecure : he had 
 much business constantly on his hands, and he 
 was under the necessity of keeping in his ser- 
 vice, and attached to his interests, a consider- 
 able number of spies and tale-bearers, from whom 
 he learned every thing that was going on in the 
 world that at all concerned Lord Fitzgeorge, ei- 
 ther directly or indirectly. Of course, among 
 other matters, he was not unacquainted with all 
 the proceedings of Augustus Fitzgeorge — with 
 all his perplexities and stratagems — with his ir- 
 regular habits and disorderly associates. All 
 these matters, as in duty bound, he communi- 
 cated to his master ; for it is an especially crafty 
 contrivance of cunning: varlets to be filling; the 
 ears of their masters with all the minuteness of
 
 F1TZGEORGE. 203 
 
 gossip and tittle-tattle; by this contrivance they 
 at first imply and at last obtain confidence. It 
 is in service as in friendship, and in all the in- 
 tercourse of human life, that no one great action 
 prevails so much over the mind, to win and to 
 rule it, as an infinite number of small and mi- 
 nute attentions. A servant who should save his 
 master's life, house, or fortune, would not creep 
 so effectually into his master's good graces, as 
 one who should be always carrying to his ear the 
 prate, prattle, and idle gossip of the neighbour- 
 hood, especially if the said master were a little- 
 minded man, having a strong appetite for such 
 food. 
 
 It was exceedingly obvious to Mr. Graves, that 
 Lord Fitzgeorge was jealous of his son, envying 
 him his present popularity, and grudging hini 
 the reversion of the title and estates. But Mr. 
 Graves knew better than to let his lordship 
 know that he saw all this : — he was able to in- 
 dulge his lordship in the encouragement of his 
 evil feelings towards his son, without giving an
 
 204 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 intimation that he suspected their existence. — 
 Lord Fitzgeorge saw no newspapers but such as 
 Mr. Graves thought proper to put in his way ; 
 for it is a remarkably wise arrangement of the 
 British Constitution, for which, no doubt, we are 
 indebted to the wisdom of our ancestors, that 
 hereditary legislators should be kept in profound 
 ignorance of the people for whom they have to 
 legislate. We have two houses of legislature, 
 one of which knows the people and the other 
 does not, and these two houses must agree be- 
 fore any bill can be passed into a law. But let 
 that pass. Mr. Graves never withheld from 
 Lord Fitzgeorge any newspaper which recorded 
 the mad freaks, follies and vagaries of the young 
 Augustus ; and when there appeared in a morn- 
 ing paper an account of the expulsion of the 
 young hopeful from the Jockey Club, Mr. Graves 
 took care that Lord Fitzo-eorge should see it. 
 
 After breakfast, when the steward waited on 
 his lordship for his orders, the following dia- 
 logue took place between them.
 
 FITZGEORGE. 205 
 
 " Graves ! Graves ! What's tins ? Look here 
 — look — read — read !" said his lordship, hand- 
 ing the paper to the steward, who looked at it as 
 calmly curious as if he had never seen it before. 
 When he had read the paragraph that was 
 pointed out to him, he returned the paper to his 
 master, and lifted up his eyes, and sighed at 
 the wickedness of the young man as heartily as 
 Blifil used to bewail the wickedness of Tom 
 Jones. 
 
 " Is it possible, my lord ? Can it be true ? — 
 Surely there must be some mistake. How very 
 unfortunate that this melancholy intelligence 
 should have come thus abruptly to your lord- 
 ship's knowledge." 
 
 11 Unfortunate ! No, no — not at all — not at 
 all — glad I know it. Shall know how to ma- 
 nage him now ! Get him in my power ! he shall 
 marry, that he shall — or he shall not have an- 
 other sixpence ! Graves, go and tell him that 
 he must marry immediately, as the only chance 
 of receiving any assistance from me."
 
 206 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 "Yes, my lord," replied Graves; " but to 
 whom would your lordship wish him to pay his 
 addresses ?" 
 
 " Pay his addresses I" exclaimed Lord Fitz- 
 george : " he pay his addresses ! — Nonsense !-— 
 I'll provide him a wife ; — but tell him he must 
 marry. I can manage him better when he is 
 married than I can now."" 
 
 " Your lordship, then," replied Graves, with 
 the utmost formality, " would have me inform 
 the Honourable Augustus Fitzgeorge, that it is 
 your lordship's sovereign will and pleasure, that 
 he should hold himself in readiness to marry 
 whatever lady your lordship may be pleased to 
 select for him." 
 
 " Exactly so," replied his lordship ; u if I 
 leave the choice to him, he will be ten years 
 making it. No, no ! — I had no choice, as any 
 body may see, and I will not suffer him to have 
 one. Now, Graves, you understand me." 
 
 " Perfectly, my lord." 
 
 " Ay, ay ! you are a clever fellow, Graves —
 
 , FITZGEORGE. 207 
 
 very clever fellow ! I should not know what to 
 do without you. You shall go to Augustus di- 
 rectly. I'll order the carriage for you ; and, do 
 you hear, I wish as you go that you would call 
 at my chaplain's at Lambeth, and tell him that 
 I am very angry with him for keeping so much 
 company. He had two tea-parties last week ! 
 They played at cards, too ! I will have none of 
 my chaplains play at cards, except on an emer- 
 gency, when I want to make up a table in my 
 own house. There's nothing about cards in the 
 Bible. And tell Augustus, that I wish he would 
 go to church more regularly. If church is good 
 enough for me, it is good enough for him !— 
 There — now you have your commission. — Do 
 you understand V 
 
 " I do, my lord, perfectly." 
 
 " Tell Augustus, that if he will marry imme- 
 diately, and go to church twice every Sunday, 
 and every Wednesday and Friday in Lent, — I'll 
 - — I'll do something towards paying his debts." 
 
 Full of his high commission, the solemn Mr.
 
 208 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 Graves hastened to the mansion of Fitzgeorge, 
 where, sending in his name, he soon had access 
 to the young gentleman's presence : for all who 
 had any favour to seek, or any anger to depre- 
 cate from Lord Fitzgeorge, paid studious court 
 to Mr. Graves. Indeed, it was supposed at the 
 time, and with much reason, that it was in this 
 kind of homage that Mr. Graves had his chief 
 delight and principal reward — for he had very 
 low wages from Lord Fitzgeorge, and few, if 
 any perquisites. 
 
 Now Augustus Fitzgeorge had a very great 
 contempt for this Mr. Graves, and the man knew 
 that very well ; but he was a crafty dissembler, 
 and put a good face on the matter, smiling and 
 bowing, as if he were all goodness and conde- 
 scension. The contrast, indeed, between Fitz- 
 george and Mr. Graves was very great. The one 
 was a man of business and the other was a man 
 of pleasure. The one was all companionship and 
 gaiety of heart — the other was as demure as a 
 frozen old maid ; and even in his cups — for h e
 
 FITZGEOTCGE. 209 
 
 could drink occasionally — he was mightily cau- 
 tious and circumspect. A man of ordinary craft 
 in the situation of Mr. Graves, naturally wishing 
 to retain his situation under the next heir, would 
 have paid, perhaps, a little more real and practi- 
 cal homage to Augustus : but the fact is, that 
 this Mr. Graves was as deep as the bottomless 
 pit. He knew that he was paying most effec- 
 tual court to the next successor by taking part 
 with the father against the son. He knew the 
 temperament and disposition of Augustus better, 
 perhaps, than he knew it himself, and was well 
 aware that, however opposed the son was now 
 to his father, yet, if the son should become Lord 
 Fitzgeorge, he would be quite as well inclined 
 as his father to domineer over his vassals and de- 
 pendents ; — so Mr. Graves was virtually recom- 
 mending himself to Augustus by thwarting and 
 opposing him. The truly crafty man has neither 
 loves nor hatreds — for love and hatred are pas- 
 sions — and passion blinds a man to his own in- 
 terest. Therefore, if a man's object be wealth
 
 210 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 or power, let him eschew all indulgence in any 
 of the passions of his nature : happy in such cir- 
 cumstances they who by nature are endowed 
 with no passions — but wise are they who subdue 
 them or conceal them. In this happy state of 
 apathetic indifference was Mr. Graves ; and he 
 was able to govern and direct others by means 
 of the absence of all passion; for he had just 
 such an advantage over men of passion, as a 
 sober man has over drunken men, or as a maii 
 with one eye over those that are blind. More- 
 over, being the favourite servant of a powerful and 
 opulent nobleman, he had much power and in- 
 fluence ; for all the world knows, that in a great 
 family a servant, who is a favourite, has greater 
 power than a child who is not a favourite. 
 
 Fitzgeorge was quite a gentleman, and Mr. 
 Graves, from living among people of high rank, 
 had acquired a pretty fair smattering of gentle- 
 manly manners. Now the veiy essence of gen- 
 tlemanly maimers is appropriateness of de- 
 meanour, or adapting the manner of address to
 
 FITZGEORGE. 211 
 
 the style and rank of those addressed. Most 
 reverently and respectfully did Mr. Graves ad- 
 dress himself to Augustus Fitzgeorge, as if mind- 
 ful of the high rank and expectations of the 
 individual before him ; but with all this courtesy 
 of address, both he and Fitzgeorge knew, that 
 though the apparent humility was on one side, 
 the real humility was on the other. 
 
 " This is a troublesome affair, Mr. Graves," 
 said Fitzgeorge ; " my father, of course, knows 
 all the particulars." 
 
 " The world, upon these occasions," replied 
 Mr. Graves, " is sufficiently communicative. 
 The particulars of your present difficulties may 
 not be all known to my honoured master, the 
 Lord Fitzgeorge ; for I felt it my duty to con- 
 ceal from his lordship whatever might be calcu- 
 lated to give him pain." 
 
 " Of course he knows," replied Fitzgeorge, 
 " that I have been outvoted at the Jockey Club, 
 and that I am surrounded with duns." 
 
 " All this his lordship knows perfectly well,
 
 212 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 and feels deeply grieved at his knowledge of 
 the fact," said Mr. Graves. 
 
 " And is, no doubt, ready to give a helping 
 hand to get me out of the scrape : for which 
 purpose, I suppose, you, Mr. Graves, will be 
 kind enough to use your influence, which all the 
 world knows to be very great." 
 
 " Whatever influence I may chance to have, 
 either from my poor abilities, or my faithful ser- 
 vices, I would use that influence solely for the 
 benefit of that great and good man whom I have 
 the honour to serve." 
 
 " Very right, Mr. Graves, perfectly com- 
 mendable. But at the same time I think it 
 would be greatly to the advantage of Lord Fitz- 
 george, that his son's debts were paid." 
 
 " But where are the means to be procured?" 
 replied Mr. Graves. " Great as is the wealth 
 of my Lord Fitzgeorge, that wealth is not inex- 
 haustible. You will consider, also, that his 
 lordship has a large family to provide for. More- 
 over, with reverence be it spoken, you should
 
 FITZGEORGE. 213 
 
 consider what a great number of poor relations 
 your honoured mother, the Lady Fitzgeorge, has 
 to provide for. Besides, the establishment which 
 Lord Fitzgeorge must of necessity keep up, is 
 not to be provided for without very considerable 
 expense." 
 
 " All this I know perfectly well, Mr. Graves ; 
 but permit me to say, that my father's tenants 
 do not pay half so much rent as they can afford 
 to pay : he might raise his rents very considera- 
 bly ; and as I am rather a favourite with many 
 of the tenants, I do not think that they would 
 grumble, if they knew that it was for my accom- 
 modation." 
 
 Mr. Graves smiled, or, more properly speak- 
 ing, he put his features into that forced and un- 
 usual position which he intended to represent a 
 smile, and said, "Ah, my honoured sir, you 
 know not the heart of a tenant, and you know 
 not the look of a tenant when he is called upon 
 for money. I am personally and practically 
 acquainted with these matters ; I know the diffi-
 
 214 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 culty which already exists of procuring the pre- 
 sent payments, and I tremble at the thought of 
 demanding more, even in cases of imperious ne- 
 cessity, where the claim is reasonable and just. 
 Now, though you may be a favourite with some 
 few of Lord Fitzgeorge's tenants," Mr. Graves 
 laid great stress on the words some few, "yet 
 you would cease to be a favourite with them if 
 they found you to be expensive to them. If the 
 rents are to be raised, all must be raised ; the 
 rents of those with whom you may be a favour- 
 ite, and the rents also of those with whom you 
 may not be a favourite; for your friends and 
 admirers would be very reluctant to bear the 
 whole burden among themselves." 
 
 " My good Sir," replied Fitzgeorge banter- 
 ingly, " I care not who bears the burden so as 
 it is removed from my shoulders." 
 
 " Ah ! " replied Mr. Graves, who affected to 
 understand the speech literally, " that is a bad 
 principle, a very bad principle ; pardon me, but 
 it is not consistent with the high station which
 
 FITZGEORGE. 215 
 
 you hold in'society. Moreover, it is also incon- 
 sistent with, the well known generosity of your 
 character. But there is one mode by which you 
 might not only get rid of yeur present difficul- 
 ties, but place yourself in a truly honourable 
 situation, thereby conciliating the esteem of the 
 wise and good." 
 
 Now it so happened that there was no set of 
 people on the face of the earth for whom Fitz- 
 george had so utter a distaste, as for those who 
 are called by themselves the wise and the good. 
 He considered them to be spoonies, flats and 
 hypocrites. He hated them for their mawkish 
 1 sentimentality and their moral conceit ; and there- 
 fore, when Mr. Graves talked to him about 
 conciliating their esteem, he felt a kind of dis- 
 gust, and replied with some degree of pettish- 
 ness, " And pray, Mr. Graves, how am I ever to 
 conciliate the esteem of the wise and good ?" 
 
 " By entering into the holy state of matri- 
 mony," said Mr. Graves. 
 
 Fitzgeorge did sometimes swear, yet seldom,
 
 216 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 very seldom indeed in the presence of Mr. 
 Graves, who was a very solemn man, but on the 
 present occasion, and at the present recommen- 
 dation, he was so far transported as to violate 
 propriety and the ears of Mr. Graves, by swear- 
 ing a great many more oaths than it is now the 
 custom to print, even in the most eviscerated 
 form. 
 
 " Matrimony ! matrimony ! Mr. Graves, do 
 you think I am mad ? when plebeians cannot pay 
 their debts they go to prison ; from that punish- 
 ment I am exempt, but a very pretty fool I 
 should be to expose and submit myself to a still 
 greater punishment than imprisonment To 
 whom, I pray you, does my honoured father de- 
 sign to yoke me in matrimony V 
 
 " On that topic," replied Mr. Graves, " his 
 lordship has not condescended to enlighten me. 
 From what passed, indeed, I apprehend that the 
 choice is not yet made, but that his lordship 
 waits your consent before he will fix on the 
 happy choice."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 217 
 
 " Then let him wait for ever/' said Fitz- 
 george. " No, Mr. Graves : look you here.' 
 Then he pointed to the splendid furniture and 
 pictures with which the room in which they 
 were sitting was adorned. " Every article of use 
 and decoration in this, and in every other room 
 in the house, shall come under the hammer of 
 the auctioneer, sooner than I will consent to the 
 arrangement which you propose. I will send 
 my horses and my carriages to fetch what they 
 will — I will break up my establishment, and 
 dismiss my servants ; I will sell my wines and 
 my plate, every article of use or luxury shall go 
 to pay my debts, but I will not marry. You 
 may carry this message, if you will, to my ho- 
 noured father ; and ask him if he wishes to see 
 the name of Fitzgeorge made humble in the 
 public eye." 
 
 " All this I can certainly do," said Mr. 
 Graves; "but I am decidedly of opinion that 
 it will be to no purpose. Lord Fitzgeorge, as 
 you may know, is very firm of purpose, and is 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 FITZGEOEGE. 
 
 not easily beaten out of his humour. If he make 
 up his mind to any given line of conduct, not 
 all the persuasions, threats, or arguments in the 
 world can induce him to change. But why 
 should you object to matrimony? See you not 
 what great domestic bliss your honoured father 
 enjoys in that holy state ?" 
 
 " It is a bliss," replied Fitzgeorge, " that I 
 envy not." 
 
 " Furthermore," continued Mr. Graves, "your 
 honoured father commissions me to say, that he 
 greatly disapproves your neglect of church." 
 
 " Possibly he may," replied Augustus, " he 
 has a remarkable fancy for church-going, in 
 which taste I by no means agree with him. The 
 whole result of your embassy to me, Mr. Graves, 
 amounts to nothing. I tell you plainly and 
 positively I will not comply with your con- 
 ditions; and if I cannot get rid of my incum- 
 brances in any other way, I will dispose of every 
 article I possess in the world. My difficulties 
 are already known, my father's penuriousness is
 
 FITZGEORGE. 219 
 
 not, or at least there is not a general conviction 
 of it. I will let the world see it, by reducing 
 myself down to a state of comparative indigence 
 and obscurity." 
 
 This was but a sudden freak which entered 
 the mind of Fitzgeorge while conversing with 
 Mr. Graves, and when that solemn man was 
 gone, the gay young spendthrift amused him- 
 self with meditating on his "new scheme. — 
 " 'Twill do," said he to himself, " 'twill do. It 
 is a most admirable contrivance ; I shall gain 
 great credit with the public ; I shall be pitied, 
 and I shall be popular. It will be altogether a 
 new kind of life to me ; and after all, however 
 divested I may be of my trappings and decora- 
 tions, plainly as I may live, plainly as I may 
 dress, plainly as I may be lodged, I shall not 
 and cannot descend into the plebeian caste. I 
 shall still be the Honourable Augustus Fitz- 
 george, I shall still be honoured and respected 
 for my rank and family. By this contrivance 
 I shall also mortify my father most effectually ; 
 l 2
 
 220 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 and when I find that he is mortified indeed, 
 and offers to make terms with me, I will take 
 care to make such terms as shall be really bene- 
 ficial to me. My father fancies that he has 
 power over me, I will let him see that I have 
 power over him." 

 
 FITZGEORGE. 221 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 RETRENCHMENT. 
 
 Fitzgeorge was thoroughly sulky, and he 
 determined to carry on [the work of retrench- 
 ment with an unsparing hand. He assembled 
 about himself the auctioneers, and other con- 
 venient people, by whose means money is 
 raised from the sale of the various playthings 
 with which great babies amuse themselves. 
 There is a pleasure to a child in the acqui- 
 sition of a new toy, and there is perhaps, 
 nearly, if not quite as great a pleasure, in 
 the demolition of an old one. Fitzgeorge had 
 feasted and gratified his sight, in viewing and
 
 222 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 reviewing the splendid and decorative furni- 
 ture with which the ingenious and tasteful 
 upholsterers had adorned his mansion ; he had 
 seen his house gradually grow in embellish- 
 ment, under the operation of his own inventive 
 skill and power of design, and now he had a 
 new, and quite unanticipated pleasure, in order- 
 ing and witnessing the demolition of this finery. 
 He could not but think with admiration of the 
 magnificent catalogue which the auctioneers 
 would have to put forth, of the invaluable valu- 
 ables which formed the sum total of his domes- 
 tic possessions. He took account, also^ of his 
 horses and carnages, and his rare and curious 
 wines, and thought that, peradventure, he might 
 make a good merchandize of them, selling them 
 for more than they cost, by virtue of his dis- 
 tinguished name and acknowledged taste. Not 
 very accurately knowing his father's character, 
 or appreciating his motives, he thought he 
 should be thus revenging himself, by exposing 
 his necessities to the world. Moreover, he had
 
 FITZGEORGE. 223 
 
 some and no small degree of satisfaction, in the 
 thought of the world's sympathy with his priva- 
 tions, and of its commendations of his greatness 
 of mind. Alack, alack ! the world does not 
 often think how much littleness there is at the 
 basis and foundation of that which it is pleased 
 to call greatness. 
 
 As in that part of his career which Fitzgeorge 
 had already run, he had experienced many a 
 pain, and suffered many a mortification which 
 he had not anticipated — so now he was enjoying 
 a pleasure which he had not anticipated. It is 
 thus that reality loves to mock our fond imagi- 
 nations, giving us pleasure where we expected 
 pain, and pain where Ave had anticipated 
 pleasure. 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Borrowman to Fitz- 
 george, one day during the progress and pa- 
 roxysm of this fit of retrenchment, " are you 
 mad ? Are you going to relinquish all the plea- 
 sures and gaieties of life, and turn hermit V* 
 
 " Xo such thing, my dear Borrowman," re-
 
 224 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 plied Fitzgeorge; " I am merely trying to 
 mortify the old gentleman, and to get myself 
 a fresh appetite for gaiety by a temporary absti- 
 nence." 
 
 " But you are not serious in your intention of 
 paying your debts ; because, if you are guilty of 
 such an unconstitutional trick as that, your 
 friends must cut you." 
 
 " Have you never paid a debt in the whole 
 course of your life V said Fitzgeorge. 
 
 " I must acknowledge that I did once ; but 
 that was merely to make a man stare. I went 
 one evening to my banker's, purposely after 
 banking hours, for I knew that my account was 
 over-drawn, and seeing only one solitary clerk 
 there, I begged him to lend me ten guineas with 
 all the air of a man who is punctual in his pay- 
 ments ; and whether it was from compassion, 
 or whether it was from a mere frolic, or from an 
 inability to deny me, I cannot tell, but he lent 
 me the money, and I paid him again at the time 
 appointed."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 225 
 
 " And he stared with astonishment," said 
 Fitzgeorge. 
 
 " Why, no," replied Borrowman ; " he was 
 going to'stare, but recollecting his manners, and 
 thinking that it might be rude to shew such 
 marked symptoms of wonderment, he put the 
 money into his pocket with an air of exquisite 
 indifference, just as if he had expected to re- 
 ceive it. — But how long, in the name of wonder, 
 do you design to carry on this farce V 
 
 " Till I feel tired of the change. There is 
 nothing like a little variety to give a zest to 
 life." 
 
 " So I suppose the next time you go to make 
 papa a visit, you will go in a hackney coach." 
 
 " Ay, any thing that will mortify the old boy.'' 
 
 " But let me give you a word of advice. 
 Mortify the old gentleman as much as you 
 please; sting him, gall him, quiz him, bother 
 him, but'do not let the world see that you study 
 to annoy him ; rather let it appear that he per- 
 secutes you, but that you bear it all with most 
 l3
 
 226 FIT2GEORGE. 
 
 exemplary patience, and that you are a most 
 dutiful son. That is the true way to obtain 
 public sympathy." 
 
 " Thank you for your advice, which, by the 
 way," said Fitzgeorge, " is rather superfluous, 
 for it is the precise line of conduct which I had 
 laid down for myself. You may assure your- 
 self, Borrowman, that I am by no means un- 
 aware of the value of a good name, just at this 
 time, among my father's tenants. I shall ex- 
 hibit myself to them as a marvellously pretty 
 piece of injured innocence; and while I profess 
 myself a most dutiful son, I shall most effectu- 
 ally provoke the public feeling against my ho- 
 noured father. He may thank himself for it all, 
 whatever craft and duplicity I have learnt, I 
 have learnt from him. It is really amusing to 
 see how he, and that demure varlet, Graves, 
 play off their stratagems one against the other. 
 Graves fancies that he is trusted in every thing, 
 but the truth is, he is trusted in nothing. He 
 is an useful instrument ; he manages the estate
 
 FITZGEORGE. 227 
 
 so as to make it productive, and he bears all 
 the odium of those measures, which he fancies 
 are his own, but which, in reality, are my fa- 
 ther's. I am really amused to see a solemn ass, 
 who thinks himself prodigiously wise, thus used 
 as a mere cat's-paw and scape-goat. My worthy 
 lady mother, too, finds him a most serviceable 
 creature in helping her poor relations. My only 
 fear, indeed, is that they will all three play such 
 tricks with the estate, that when it comes into 
 my possession it will be scarcely worth having." 
 " Never fear that," exclaimed Borrowman, 
 " it is a capital estate, and will bear a great deal 
 of improvement yet. But that fellow Graves is 
 a piece of such exquisite formality and old maid- 
 lshness, that he w ill never hear a word of im- 
 provement or alteration. The land is capital, 
 and the tenants industrious, substantial, and re- 
 sponsible men; they may grumble now and 
 then, and talk of throwing up their faims, but 
 they know better; they know when they are 
 w r ell off, and I know when they will be better 
 off."
 
 228 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 " Ay, Borrowman," replied Fitzgeorge, " I 
 think that, with the assistance of your advice, 
 and that of our friend Leppard, we might make 
 some considerable improvements in the state of 
 things in general. But at present we must only 
 think of retrenchment." 
 
 "But," continued Borrowman, "you adver- 
 tise your wines ; do you intend to empty your 
 cellars without the assistance of your friends?" 
 
 " We shall fill them again, and perhaps we 
 may find it expedient to retain a little, j ust a 
 little. But the fact is, that it is desirable to 
 make our retrenchments as ostentatious as pos- 
 sible. We must appear to the world to wear 
 sackcloth and ashes." 
 
 " Capital — you will be an object of universal 
 pity and universal praise. Fathers will talk 
 about you, and point you out as an example to 
 their sons ; creditors will extol you as the prince 
 of debtors, and the very model of high-minded 
 integrity. You will even impose upon your fa- 
 ther."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 229 
 
 "Not quite," replied Fitzgeorge, "he has 
 known me from my childhood ; and he knows 
 that it is no part of my system or habit to ex- 
 pose myself wilfully and voluntarily to any real 
 mortification or painful self-denial." 
 
 So the work of dismantling and retrenchment 
 went on most swimmingly. The Honourable 
 Augustus Fitzgeorge was no more the gay, the 
 extravagant, the fashionable; but he had re- 
 duced his establishment to a mere nothing; • he 
 was as plain and economical in his dress and in 
 his table as any of his father's agricultural 
 tenants. Newmarket and Ascot heard nothing 
 of his stud, the mansion which had been the 
 life and bustle of the neighbourhood in which 
 it stood, was now as silent as a convent and 
 dark as a sepulchre. He occupied only one or 
 two small rooms, leaving the others deprived 
 of their furniture, and denied even the embel- 
 lishment of daylight. His friends expostulated 
 with him, his enemies taunted him, the world 
 talked about him. Strange to say, notwith-
 
 230 FITZGEORGE, 
 
 standing his decided and unbounded taste for 
 splendour and ostentation, he did not find this 
 seclusion and retirement at all wearisome or 
 annoying. He seemed rather to imagine that 
 it opened to him a new chapter in the volume 
 of human life. In many respects it opened to 
 him new and hitherto unexperienced scenes. 
 Still he pursued the course of pleasure, for the 
 whole business of his life was pleasure. When 
 he was not occupied in life's gaieties, or shining 
 in its splendours, he was still devoted to his pur- 
 suits of sensuality. 
 
 In this interval of privacy and apparent self- 
 denial there was good opportunity for the 
 activity of the imagination in devising new forms 
 of luxury and new styles of decoration. An 
 empty house gave room enough for the fancy 
 to run riot and to create for its own amusement 
 images of future splendour. The accuracy of 
 mercantile calculation was no part of the system 
 or practice of Fitzgeorge. His preceptors had 
 not failed indeed to instruct him in the use and
 
 FITZGEORGE. 231 
 
 power of figures, but he knew nothing of their 
 practical application. Figures were to him pure 
 abstractions, and he regarded them by no means 
 in connection with pounds, shillings, and pence. 
 Involved in debt to nearly ten times the amount 
 of his annual income, he had a sort of vague 
 notion that a few months' abstinence from his 
 usual extravagances would be sufficient to get 
 rid of his incumbrances, or so to remove the im- 
 mediate pressure and annoyance of them that 
 he might presently return again to his old habits 
 and shine as brightly and brilliantly as ever. 
 His principal hope, however, was that he might 
 shame his father into some concession. In this 
 hope he was disappointed, nor did the formation 
 and encouragement manifest any great degree 
 of practical wisdom. It might have been clear 
 enough to him by this time that Lord Fitzgeorge 
 was not easily to be moved from his purposes, 
 and that the more absurd those purposes were 
 the more pertinaciously he was likely to adhere 
 to them. Opposition always had the effect of
 
 232 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 fixing him more decidedly and obstinately on 
 what he meditated and desired. Moreover, it 
 generally happens that persons in the highest 
 as well as people in the lowest conditions of 
 society are equally inaccessible by shame. In 
 the lowest grades there is nothing to lose by 
 way of reputation, and in the highest, though 
 there may be something to gain, yet there are 
 always about them those who pay precisely the 
 same homage to the individual, whatever be the 
 moral and intellectual character; nothing is 
 heard but the language of compliment and the 
 music of a gentle flattery. There was no one 
 about Lord Fitzgeorge who dared to tell him 
 that his conduct towards his son was con- 
 temptible and mean, and that the shallowest 
 observers of human life could easily see through 
 the thin veil of hypocrisy, with which he 
 attempted to conceal and disguise it. There 
 was no one who dared say to him that by this 
 persecution he did not shew so manifestly his 
 hatred of vice as his mean malignity against his
 
 FITZGEORGE. 233 
 
 own son. There was no one who dared to tell 
 him that he was corroborating, and that inten- 
 tionally, the reckless habits of the young spend- 
 thrift. There was no one who dared to tell him 
 that when this fit of retrenchment should be 
 over, the fever of extravagance w r ould break 
 forth again with redoubled violence and a force 
 of greater distinctiveness. 
 
 When Mr. Graves, w r ho was know r n, or per- 
 haps, to speak more accurately, was supposed 
 to have great influence over Lord Fitzgeorge, 
 was persuaded to use his power to induce Lord 
 Fitzgeorge to do something for the relief of his 
 son's embarrassments, the unnatural parent 
 affected to be so considerate of his tenants, 
 that he would not raise the rents for the sup- 
 port, as he called it, of the young man's extra- 
 vagance. Yet, at the same time, he w r as col- 
 lecting money from his tenants to send to his 
 wife's poor relations, and that not so much to 
 relieve their actual poverty, which no one would 
 have blamed him for, as to put them into a
 
 234 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 sphere of life far above anything to which they 
 had been accustomed, or any of their ancestors 
 before them. The relations of Lady Fitzgeorge 
 were, indeed, gentlefolks by birth and educa- 
 tion ; they had estates, though very small ones, 
 and the very circumstance which had induced 
 Lord Fitzgeorge's mother to select him a wife 
 amongst the little gentry, was, that the young 
 woman might be subservient, and feel herself 
 dependant. It was little thought, though it 
 might have been expected, that she would have 
 quartered her poor relations on Lord Fitz- 
 george's tenants; so, however, she did, and they 
 had the vanity to think, that they had a right 
 to cut as great a figure in the world almost 
 as Lord Fitzgeorge himself. So while his lord- 
 ship was feeding, clothing and decorating these 
 gentry, his own son — his eldest son and heir — 
 was left to be surrounded with duns, and an- 
 noyed by his embarrassed circumstances. 
 
 Now many of Lord Fitzgeorge's tenants, see- 
 ng the difficulties to which Augustus was re-
 
 "F1TZGEORGE. 235 
 
 duced, would willingly, of their own accord, 
 hav T e come forward to assist him, but they knew 
 that Lord Fitzgeorge would not be pleased that 
 they should, therefore they abstained. In no- 
 thing, perhaps, did Lord Fitzgeorge more shew 
 his weakness, than by making among his friends 
 a frequent boast of his duplicity. He affected 
 to be exceedingly partial to artifice, and strata- 
 gem, but then he was weak enough to talk 
 about it, and he managed it so clumsily, that 
 the merest child could discover it. In truth, he 
 deceived nobody but himself, and he deceived 
 himself so completely, as to persuade himself 
 that he was a perfect master of artifice, when 
 artifice was completely the master of him. 
 Men of the profoundest duplicity never talk of 
 •artifice. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that an individual, 
 so entirely and systematically devoted to indul- 
 gence as Augustus Fitzgeorge, should, even in 
 his temporary retirement from the public eye, 
 cease from the pursuit to which his whole life
 
 236 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 was given, and all the powers of his mind and 
 thought surrendered. It was now his amuse- 
 ment to engage in anonymous amours, seeking 
 the society of some of the dirtiest and lowest 
 of the sons and daughters of men. Nor were 
 there wanting those who carried to the pious 
 Lord Fitzgeorge, and to the fastidious and su- 
 peraccurate Lady Fitzgeorge, a full account of 
 the proceedings of their promising son. And 
 the pious Lord Fitzgeorge said his prayers very 
 loudly twice every Sunday in his parish church, 
 knowing at the very time, that he was lifting 
 up his eyes so piously as to fascinate the parish 
 clerk, that he was suffering his son to run into 
 all manner of excesses, without contriving", 
 wishing, or desiring, to extricate him from his 
 morally perilous condition. The virtuous Lady 
 Fitzgeorge also heard, with great indifference, 
 of her sons irregularities, so long as she had 
 money to send to her poor relations, and so 
 long as she could have her person decorated 
 with diamonds, and her cabinets filled with 
 curiosities.
 
 F1TZGEORGE. 237 
 
 In the mean time, the poor forsaken and for- 
 lorn Juliet was living in the solitude of a miser- 
 able lodging, which had once been decorated 
 with many ornaments, and gladdened by the 
 presence — the graceful presence — of her beloved 
 and gentle Fitzgeorge. By degrees these orna- 
 ments vanished — one after another they found 
 their way into shop-windows again, tempting 
 once more the eye of thoughtless extravagance, 
 and inviting simple people to part with their 
 pence. Fitzgeorge had now deserted, forsaken, 
 neglected her; poor Juliet, however, was not 
 merely a sacrifice to retrenchment, but she was 
 forsaken, because she had ceased to please, by 
 attempting to please too much. Her love had 
 been too great to meet return. She had the mor- 
 tification of knowing that another had taken her 
 place ; that another was living in comparative 
 luxury and gaiety at the expense of Fitzgeorge, 
 who had once been hers — and only hers. Still 
 she possessed the bond which Fitzgeorge had 
 given her : it was a painful memorandum of the
 
 238 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 delightful past. She once had shed over it tears 
 of joy; but now she wept upon it tears of sor- 
 row. " Alas !" she would often say to herself, 
 " what is or can be the use of this bond ? A 
 bond it was once by which my heart was bound 
 to him ; but now whom does it bind, or what ? 
 Will it produce me any of the comforts of life, 
 or supply my wants ? Can I ask my beloved one 
 for money ? For still — still he is my beloved — • 
 and he will be as long as life shall last. Alas ! 
 he also is suffering many privations — he has 
 many importunate creditors — very troublesome 
 people — why should I add to their number by 
 my importunities ? But why did he forsake me? 
 Did I ever cease to love him ? Ah ! no — no — 
 no never ! — I have loved him with an unabated, 
 with an increasing love, that has grown upon me 
 day after day. Oh! I have had enemies ! Sad 
 thought ! I have had cruel enemies, who have 
 been the means of alienating his affections. — 
 Just when I thought that I was secure in his af- 
 fection and esteem — when life was smiling upon
 
 FITZGEORGE. 239 
 
 me with promise and with joy, then to be dashed 
 at once from the highest pinnacle to the deepest 
 humiliation, and it is more than I can bear ! — 
 Poor dear Fitz^eorge ! Merciless creditors sur- 
 round him ! and merciless creditors surround me 
 too ! I can sympathise with him !" 
 
 But Juliet knew that her creditors were not 
 to be satisfied with sentimentality, or to be 
 blown away with sighs, or washed away with 
 tears. Retrenchment was a matter of more 
 seriousness to Juliet than it was to Fitzgeorge. 
 She could not make a jest of her obscurity, or 
 enjoy the joke of riding in a hackney coach in- 
 stead of a gilded chariot. She had no brilliant 
 expectations and reversions, whereby creditors 
 may be taught respectfulness, even in the midst 
 of their importunities. With her destitution 
 was not transient, but permanent. She could 
 not return to the profession, which for the sake 
 of Fitzgeorge she had left, nor was there any 
 other to which the could return. By her own 
 weakness and by the wickedness of Fitzgeorge,
 
 240 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 she suffered a threefold destitution. She had 
 been first deprived of a profession by means of 
 which she might have subsisted ! she was in the 
 next place so initiated in luxury, and so sur- 
 rounded with elegancies and indulgence, that 
 her wants were increased, and many things 
 became necessaries, which once had been su- 
 perfluities ; and lastly, she was rendered totally 
 unable to return again to that line of life from 
 whence she had been taken. Then did she lament 
 her folly ; but even then she did not reproach 
 Fitzgeorge. 
 
 Influenced more by a foolish and romantic 
 fondness than by any higher sentiment of gene- 
 rosity, she abstained long from urging her claim 
 upon the bond. For the supply of her daily 
 expenses, which had been reduced to the nar- 
 rowest possible compass, she had recourse to the 
 disposing of the various pretty trinkets and toys 
 which in the days of his fondness her thought- 
 less lover had lavished upon her. But these 
 things could not last for ever, nor could they
 
 FITZGEORGE. 241 
 
 last lon^ ; there is a great difference too between 
 the money which toys cost, and the money 
 which toys will fetch for those who can no lon- 
 ger affcrd to keep them. Moreover, there is a 
 great deal of difference between the retrench- 
 ment that cuts down superfluities merely, and 
 that which encroaches upon the necessaries of 
 life. The one is seen and the other is felt. 
 
 The time came at length when, in spite of all 
 her magnanimous and sentimental resolves, 
 Juliet was driven to have recourse to her bond. 
 She looked at it, and wept ever it, and sighed 
 over it. It was the only memorial that was 
 now left of her beloved Fitzgeorge, and very 
 strongly did she suspect that it was as worthless 
 and valueless as he that had given it. It had 
 to the eye all the appearance of a valuable and 
 veritable document ; but when presented to one 
 who had no means of redeeming it, it became 
 a mere mockery. To the beloved, but no longer 
 loving giver of the bond, Juliet at last was in- 
 duced to write a long and sentimental letter, 
 
 VOL. T. M
 
 242 FITZGEOHGE. 
 
 stating her great necessities, and alluding to the 
 bond in terms as delicate and respectful as pos- 
 sible. But neither the English language, nor 
 any other language on the face of the earth has 
 terms sufficiently delicate wherewith money may 
 be demanded of one that has not the means of 
 paying it. Her letter remained unanswered. 
 Another and another was written ; an answer was 
 at length extorted, and an interview was at last 
 appointed. 
 
 How gaily then did beat and bound the heart 
 of the simple Juliet ! Then did she begin to 
 flatter herself that the roving heart was coming- 
 back to her, that the buried love was coming 
 to life ao-ain, and that Fitzo-eor^e would once 
 more be hers. She neither knew him nor knew 
 herself. She now took more pains, if possible, 
 than ever with the duties of the toilet, and 
 she seemed to imagine that she looked as beau- 
 tiful and as interesting as ever. She could see 
 no difference, except it were for the better, 
 between her present appearance and that which
 
 FITZGEOEGE. 243 
 
 first had captivated Fitzgeorge; but there was 
 one charm which she had possessed then, which 
 she did not now, which no art could give and 
 without which the heart of Fitzgeorge was ab- 
 solutely inaccessible, that charm was novelty. 
 Not being tired of her own pretty face she 
 thought that Fitzgeorge could not be tired of it, 
 and fondly imagined that the more she could 
 make herself look like what she had been, the 
 more likely she should be to regain the lost 
 affections of her former lover. She was wrong*, 
 miserably wrong. Spill water on the sand and 
 gather it up again, destroy life and restore it, 
 persuade yesterday to give back its departed 
 hours, and make that which has been not to 
 have been ; then may a man be persuaded to 
 love a second time her whom he hath once ceased 
 to love. Love may exist for ever, but it can 
 only exist once. This is the only true theory 
 of the unity of love. A man may love more 
 than once, but he cannot love the same person 
 m 2
 
 244 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 more than once. Seldom does he attempt it, 
 'and if he does he is sure to fail. 
 
 A politer man than Augustus Fitzgeorge never 
 lived, — his formality was so exquisitely graceful, 
 that it might pass for sincerity. How kindly did 
 he receive the forlorn and suppliant Juliet ! jS t o 
 haughtiness, no coldness, no repulsive frozen 
 look or embarrassed shyness, that looks as if it 
 wished to forget what it could not forget ; but 
 all was ease and gracefulness, and pleasant gen- 
 tleness of manner, as though there had never 
 been the slightest alienation. Vulgar men, un- 
 der such circumstances, must have been rude or 
 sheepish, pained themselves, and giving pain to 
 others. It was not so with Fitzgeorge. Juliet, 
 whose heart fluttered and trembled with agita- 
 tion before she was ushered into his presence, 
 felt herself at once at ease ; she forgot his de- 
 sertion, and forgave his inconstancy. Nothing 
 of the past was remembered, save that which it 
 was pleasant to think of. The countenance of
 
 FITZGEORGE. 245 
 
 the lady brightened up at this reception, and she 
 felt as though all that had passed since last she 
 saw Fitzgeorge was merely an unpleasant dream 
 from which she was now waking to a pleasant 
 reality. 
 
 " Surely I have had enemies," said Juliet, 
 " who have endeavoured to injure me in the es- 
 teem of my best, my dearest, my only friend !" 
 
 " It is the invariable lot of real worth," replied 
 Fitzgeorge, " to be exposed to the shafts of ca- 
 lumny." 
 
 " Yes," answered Juliet, " and if the good 
 and generous Fitzgeorge himself cannot escape 
 the tongue of the calumniator, how can I expect 
 or hope exemption from it?" 
 
 " Your only consolation and defence against 
 it," said Fitzgeorge, "must be the consciousness 
 of vour integrity, a consolation which will never 
 fail you or forsake you." 
 
 Fitzgeorge looked exceedingly fascinating and 
 interesting:, but the fascinating; and interesting; 
 looks of Fitzgeorge would not pay Juliet's debts,
 
 246 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 or drive away the duns that were daily besieging 
 her door. The bond had not been alluded to in 
 the interview, and though Juliet had named it 
 in her letters, there was a want of courage to 
 speak of it in his presence. Oh the generosity, 
 the delicacy, the noblemindedness of the good 
 Fitzgeorge ! He spared the trembling and agi- 
 tated Juliet the pain of introducing the topic 
 by alluding to it himself in terms so generous, 
 and with such an exquisite propriety, that she 
 was ready to cancel the obligation at once, and 
 let her creditors wait till they were tired. 
 
 u Oh name it not !" she exclaimed with a 
 passionate earnestness, "I grieve for the sad 
 necessity that exists for any allusion to it. 
 Between us there should be no other bonds than 
 those of generous sentiment.'" 
 
 Fitzgeorge wished that there were no others, 
 for those he could very easily dispense with. 
 " Dearest Juliet," said he, in a tone and with a 
 look worth at least half the money, " the bond 
 exists — given by me freely, knowingly, and it 
 must be paid."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 247 
 
 u Must be paid !" replied Juliet, " did I say 
 1 must V " 
 
 " Xo, rny beloved, you were too good and 
 generous to say it," answered Fitzgeorge, " but 
 I say it must and shall. If every other obligation 
 is neglected, and all my other creditors should 
 be deprived of their claims, my Juliet shall not 
 be wronged of a single farthing. The bond is 
 
 O DO 
 
 yours, and shall be paid." 
 
 u Oh, no, no," said Juliet, affectedly, " say 
 not so. It shall not, it must not. I know the 
 generosity of Fitzgeorge's heart." 
 
 " Dearest Juliet," said Fitzgeorge again, in a 
 tone which was well worth the other half of 
 the bond, " say no more; but it shall be paid 
 and that, if possible, on this very instant." 
 Softening down his tone, from the high roman- 
 tic to the mild and gentle pathetic, he continued, 
 " Ah, my beloved friend, the world has used 
 me harshly, ungenerously, unjustly ! Common, 
 vulgar minds cannot enter into the feelings of 
 those who are born in life's higher spheres*
 
 248 FITZGEOHGE. 
 
 There is a disposition in low-minded people, 
 to bring everything down to their own mean 
 level." 
 
 " Contemptible, despicable creatures," ex- 
 claimed Juliet. 
 
 " They do not see," continued Fitzgeorge, 
 that gilded roofs, and sumptuous carriages, and 
 splendid galas, are more to me than daily bread 
 is to them. Some of my father's tenants, in a 
 strain of cant which would not disgrace a metho- 
 dist parson, turn up their eyes, and say that it is 
 very hard, that they should take the bread out 
 of the mouths of their children to furnish me 
 with race-horses. Are not race-horses more to 
 me than their children's bread V s 
 
 " Mean wretches," exclaimed Juliet, " infi- 
 nitely more, my beloved friend." 
 
 " To think, also, of the littleness of those 
 tradespeople," said Fitzgeorge, " they are the 
 very pest of society. They interfere with, and 
 embitter all the sweets and comforts of life. 
 They, forsooth, must be paid, little thinking at
 
 FITZGEORGE. 249 
 
 the same time, how inconvenient, and some- 
 times how impossible it is to pay them." 
 
 " Base fellows !" replied Juliet. " I know it ; 
 yes, my Fitzgeorge, I know how absurdly im- 
 portunate they are. Oh, they have not the 
 slightest notion of true generosity of soul, or 
 high liberality of feeling." 
 
 " Things would go on pleasantly enough," 
 said Fitzgeorge, " if it were not foi\ them ; but 
 they mar everything that is beautiful, and in- 
 terfere with all the enjoyments of life. They 
 deserve to suffer for their very insolence and 
 impertinence." 
 
 " Nothing is too bad for them," replied 
 Juliet, moved to this cruelty of expression more, 
 perhaps, by her sympathy with Fitzgeorge, than 
 by the actual, though numerous annoyances 
 which she herself had suffered, and was likely 
 to suffer from them. 
 
 " But my Juliet's bond shall be paid," said 
 Fitzgeorge ; " yes, if the work of dismantling 
 proceed yet farther, and if I be reduced to a 
 m 3
 
 250 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 bare subsistence. I will bear the legal insults 
 of my vulgar creditors ; yes, I will even brave 
 the anger of my unnatural father, and will insist 
 upon it that he shall pay the bond. Let me en- 
 dure what I may of parental anger, or personal 
 privation, my Juliet's bond shall be paid." 
 
 This was said with such an amazing emphasis, 
 and such a tone of deep feeling and earnestness, 
 that Juliet was overwhelmed and lost in asto- 
 nishment at his loftiness of thought and subli- 
 mity of sentiment. She sat for a while in a 
 maze of wonderment and stupor, scarcely know- 
 ing what to think, or whether to think at all. 
 The unparalleled generosity of this best of men, 
 so superior to all the little meannesses of dirty 
 tradespeople, quite captivated her heart afresh. 
 — Ten thousand conflicting;; thoughts rushed 
 through her agitated soul. Love, pity, joy, 
 gratitude, sorrow, grief, and ecstacy of spirit, all 
 blended together, threw her into an indescribable 
 agitation, and rising from her seat, she took the 
 bond from her pocket-book, and then directing
 
 FITZGEORGE. 251 
 
 to Fitzgeorge a look as lovely as any Juliet ever 
 gave to any Romeo, and modulating her voice 
 into a most musical key, she exclaimed, " Ne- 
 ver V Then she tore the bond in half. " Never !" 
 Then she tore it into four pieces. " Never !" — 
 Then she tore it into eight. " Never — never — 
 never — never!" So she went on, tearing the 
 bond into pieces smaller and smaller, till at 
 length it was reduced to mince-meat. Then she 
 sat down, exhausted with fatigue, and over- 
 whelmed with admiration of her own generosity 
 and elevation of sentiment. 
 
 Fitzgeorge himself was so taken by surprise, 
 that he was absolutely thunderstruck, and had 
 not presence of mind sufficient to prevent the 
 catastrophe. So there the bond lay on the floor, 
 all in very little pieces — so little, that it would 
 have been impossible to put it together again. 
 
 ■ What have you done ?" exclaimed Fitz- 
 george. 
 
 " An act of justice !" she replied. 
 
 "An act of generosity !" he responded. —
 
 252 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 " Oh, Juliet ! This is too much ! This must not 
 be allowed or thought of. I must replace that 
 bond, which you have, in the madness of your 
 generosity, so thoughtlessly destroyed." 
 
 " Nay, most excellent of men !" replied Juliet, 
 " say not thoughtlessly but considerately ; it 
 was from an impulse of feeling — but it was an 
 act of the judgement." 
 
 Then she rose to depart ; and Fitzgeorge said, 
 " But when, my beloved, when shall we meet 
 again ?" 
 
 " I am your slave," said Juliet. And so they 
 parted. Juliet returned to her apartments full 
 of admiration of her beloved Fitzgeorge, and 
 prepared to treat the importunities of her cre- 
 ditors with the contempt which they deserved. 
 Fitzgeorge that day sat gaily down to dinner 
 with Fitzmaurice and Isabella, and the party 
 laughed heartily at the amusing narrative which 
 Fitzgeorge gave of his interview with the senti- 
 mental Juliet.
 
 T1TZGEORGK. 253 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MORE EXTRAVAGANCE. 
 
 When he who has been long accustomed to a 
 well-spread table, with all its suitable appoint- 
 ments and becoming elegancies, is by any acci- 
 dent of situation, as a day's sport in hunting or 
 shooting, drawn far away from home, and is 
 driven, by the sharp necessity of a pressing hun- 
 ger, to sit down at the humble table of a cot- 
 tager, he feels so great a relish in the refresh- 
 ment, together with an amusement in the va- 
 riety, that he fancies he could always live thus ; 
 but soon he grows tired of the change, and sighs 
 for his ordinary mode of satisfying his daily
 
 254 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 hunger. So did the Hon. Augustus Fitzgeorge 
 grow soon tired of that obscurity which had at 
 the first taste so much pleased and amused him. 
 He soon began to find that the element of his 
 life and being was in the eye of society, and in 
 the admiration of a gaping world. Having by 
 some contrivance, he scarcely knew what, ma- 
 naged to get rid of some few of his incum- 
 brances, and having, by his abstinence from his 
 former gaieties gained a mighty share of ad- 
 miration and applause, he now thought of look- 
 ing like himself again, and keeping up the dig- 
 nity of his rank which had so long been in 
 abeyance. 
 
 All the various artisans were again set to 
 work. The embellishments and furniture of the 
 mansion in town were restored in greater splen- 
 dour than before. Sounds of festivity were 
 heard again; friends came again in copious 
 abundance ; congratulations and applause were 
 heard from many tongues ; and Fitzgeorge now 
 resolved that he would enjoy life to his heart's
 
 FITZGEORGE. 255 
 
 content. Again his gilded carriages graced the 
 streets, and again the life and bustle of his re- 
 furnished mansion gave animation to the neigh- 
 bourhood. There is, perhaps, no object in na- 
 ture so truly deplorable as a magnificent, de- 
 serted mansion; 'midst woods and wilds, and 
 rocky mountains, no one looks for the human 
 face divine, or listens for the busy hum of men; 
 solitude is the fit society of the desert ; even in 
 the massy ruins of buildings and cities of a by- 
 gone age, when the ivy has climbed the walls, 
 and the unsociable bird of twilight has made its 
 nest in the not yet crumbled pinnacles, there is 
 something of a poetic beauty, and the imagina- 
 tion loves to have room for the creation of its 
 own fancies — the human face is not missed, be- 
 cause not looked for amidst those picturesque 
 ruins, which are as the last long shadows of a 
 departed generation : but the empty mansion in 
 a living city, the glazed but eyeless windows, 
 the untrodden steps, the cold, smokeless chim- 
 neys, the unfurnished halls, the tongueless bells,
 
 256 IITZGEORGE. 
 
 and the silent knocker, are mournful, melancholy 
 — not like the calm sublimity of death, but like 
 the gaping agony of dying. From this state of 
 sad paralysis the mansion of Fitzgeorge revived. 
 Even his creditors, his unpaid creditors, were 
 not sorry to see the rekindling of that light 
 which had been the joy and pride of the neigh- 
 bourhood. And now his father, Lord Fitz- 
 george, w r as in hopes that he might gain two ad- 
 vantages over the young man, that by increasing 
 difficulties and new expenses, and a stronger 
 taste for extravagance, he might be compelled, 
 for his relief and extrication, to have recourse to 
 matrimony, and to the adoption of his father's 
 line of politics. But Augustus inherited so much 
 of the paternal temperament as to possess a 
 strong feeling of obstinacy. To the bondage of 
 matrimony he had a decided objection; but to 
 the person whom his father might select he had 
 a still stronger objection: he knew not exactly 
 who it might be, but he could partly guess, and 
 the conjecture pleased him not.
 
 FITZGEOEGE. 257 
 
 As the father had anticipated, so it was. 
 This second fit of extravagance exceeded the 
 first. Refinement grew upon refinement, and 
 one folly was the parent of a dozen more. 
 Professor Malthus may be greatly alarmed at 
 the carelessness of Providence, which, not hav- 
 ing consulted him at the creation of the world, 
 has most unwisely allowed the human race to 
 increase in a geometrical ratio ; but the follies 
 of fashion and extravagance increase in a ratio 
 still more alarming, and more irrational. It 
 was the ambition of Fitz°*eor2:e to be the first in 
 the walks of fashion, refinement, elegance and 
 superfineness. He aimed to set, not to follow 
 the fashion ; and he undoubtedly had a good eye 
 for patterns, forms and colours. Whatever new 
 modes of dress or furniture he might devise, 
 they were sure to meet with the approbation of 
 men of taste ; and so fertile was his imagina- 
 tion, that there was no need of any auxiliaries, 
 nor any room for the intrusion of rivals. He 
 stood unrivalled, at the summit of his profession,
 
 258 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 for profession certainly it was, though not so 
 classed or arranged, according to the ordinary 
 acceptation of the term profession. A setter of 
 fashions was clearly the profession of Fitz- 
 george, for it was his only occupation, his con- 
 stant study, his greatest ambition. He aspired 
 not to shine in the senate, or in the field ; he 
 gave not up his days or nights to the study of 
 philosophy, or the cultivation of letters, and for 
 one hour that he spent with any other book, he 
 spent five with the pattern book. It is no 
 doubt a very interesting and curious study, to 
 men who have minds capable of that high reach 
 and deep profundity, to ascertain at each chang- 
 ing season of the ever-various year, what colours 
 best become the infinite variety of the human 
 complexion and countenance, modified as they 
 incessantly are, by a changing climate, and by 
 the unforeseen fluctuation of interests and poli- 
 tical movements. The people of Asia, who live 
 beneath a cloudless sky and an unrelenting, un- 
 resisted despotism, still keep the monotony of
 
 TITZGEORGE. 259 
 
 their garb and manners, wearing the same dress 
 at the present day, and keeping the same cus- 
 toms to the present hour, as were worn and kept 
 by the father of the faithful. It is net so with 
 European nations, especially the English; — 
 they are constantly changing the shape and co- 
 lour of their attire, and are progressing, in an 
 infinite course, towards unattainable perfection* 
 Seeing this peculiarity, and observing its foun- 
 dation in a deep and curious principle, Fitz- 
 george bent all the powers of his mighty mind 
 to modify and regulate these changes. While 
 common minds, and the thoughtless mass of 
 mankind carelessly, clumsily, and impatiently 
 lend their bodies for a few minutes to the tailor's 
 measures, and thus encourage or tolerate the 
 production of ill-formed habiliments, it was the 
 glory of Fitzgeorge to think, that whatever was 
 worth doing at all was worth doing well. He 
 received not his tailor impatiently, nor dismissed 
 him hastily, and while he was employed in the 
 work of admeasurement, and in consultation and
 
 260 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 investigation of shape and colour, his mind was 
 net idly wandering away after matters of minor 
 importance, but he bent his whole pow r ers to 
 the subject, and gave it the deepest and closest 
 attention. Blue, black, brown, green, pink, 
 are words by which the indiscriminating many 
 express the diversity of colour, but the eye of 
 Fitzgeorge was far more recondite. Amidst the 
 primary colours he had discernment to distin- 
 guish an infinite variety of shades, and to ascer- 
 tain which was the most beautiful and most ap- 
 propriate ; and of the many artizans who were 
 at various times employed to embody the crea- 
 tions of his brilliant imagination, not one has 
 been found who ever detected the slightest in- 
 accuracy in Fitzgeorge's taste. Whatever co- 
 lour, or whatever shade and combination of co- 
 lour he might fix on as the most beautiful for the 
 time being, was sure to be the very perfection 
 of beauty. He was 
 
 " Through all the realms of beauty absolute."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 261 
 
 Nor indeed is it much to be wondered at that 
 he should have been always so superbly success- 
 ful in his choice of cut and colour, for though 
 much might, and no doubt did, depend upon an 
 innate genius, and on mental powers peculiarly 
 adapted to such subjects, yet much was also the 
 result of great and continued application to the 
 topic. He not only brought talent, but he p-ave 
 time and diligence to the investigation. It is too 
 much the practice and habit of genius to depend 
 mainly on its inherent powers, and to trust to 
 almost extemporaneous efforts, but this was not 
 a failing of which Fitzgeorge was guilty, although 
 a genius of the first order in dress and decora- 
 tion. On the contrary, he disdained not to spend 
 hour after hour in close and closetted consulta- 
 tion with his tailors, watching, peradventure, the 
 effect of various lights on various shades of 
 colour as the day advanced or receded : for a 
 colour that is beautiful at ten o'clock may alter 
 its aspect beneath a meridian sun, and a dress 
 that is graceful at two may be seen under ano-
 
 262 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 ther aspect at five or six. Moreover, he had the 
 judgment to consider, that by many superficial 
 persons novelty itself may be taken for elegance, 
 and that even more profound observers may be 
 deceived by the first contemplation of a new 
 form or colour ; therefore he thought it neces- 
 sary, previous to the publication of any new 
 form of dress, to dwell attentively on the exa- 
 mination and inspection of it ; for it would have 
 been a source of much regret, and of serious 
 remorse, if he had by any haste or inconside- 
 rateness published a coat which would not bear 
 the test of the nicest examination. When Fitz- 
 george, therefore, did exhibit himself, he was 
 properly prepared for the exhibition, and by the 
 superb arrangements of his toilet paid all proper 
 homage and respect to the admiring public ; 
 and when the public saw him decorated with all 
 that can contribute to the rightly ornamenting 
 of the human frame, they saw the result of many 
 hours' labour and much serious thought. 
 
 Happy is it for those who by their exalted
 
 FITZGEORGE. 263 
 
 station and attractive manners are able to select 
 their associates and companions from every pos- 
 sible variety of human character and condition. 
 So it was with Fitzgeorge ; he was not only a 
 gentleman by birth, but a gentleman by man- 
 ners, mind, feeling, habit, taste, principle, con- 
 stitution, everything — he was a most complete 
 and perfect gentleman, an unrivalled gentleman, 
 a gentleman in every point of view, and in every 
 particular which constitutes that undefinable yet 
 obvious being called gentleman. It is true that 
 he did not pay his creditors, because he could 
 not, but still he was a gentlemen ; it is true that 
 he had sacrificed poor simple Juliet's peace of 
 mind, profession, reputation, such as it was, to 
 his own transient passion, but still he was a 
 gentleman ; it is true that he cared for no one 
 but himself, and followed his own caprices and 
 humours, regardless of the feelings of others, 
 but still he was a gentleman. And when we 
 have said that a man is a gentleman, we forget 
 or heed not any minor considerations. There
 
 264 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 may be in a man's character and conduct folly, 
 wickedness, mischief, indolence, arrogance, dis- 
 honesty, brutality, and a thousand other modi- 
 fications of ungoverned passion ; but still, if he 
 be a gentleman, we must look up to him with 
 admiration and respect, and must take it for 
 granted that he must be infinitely more proud 
 of being a gentleman than ashamed of any of 
 the minor blots and blemishes in his character. 
 The brightness and brilliancy of the gentlemanly 
 character eclipses and conceals all defects. 
 
 Fitzgeorge then was a gentleman, and of 
 course all who attempted to be or thought them- 
 selves to be gentlemen, admired in him that 
 which they admired in themselves. Gentlemen, 
 who had made it the whole study of their little 
 lives to learn how to dress and move the body, 
 to regulate the inflexion of the spine, to manage 
 the movements of the toes and fingers and knees 
 and shoulders, to arrange the important simper, 
 and to direct the magnificent sneer; these gen- 
 tlemen dressed themselves at the model of Fitz-
 
 FITZGEORGE. 265 
 
 george as at a mirror, and not more perfectly 
 could the African ape imitate with edifying gra- 
 vity the movements of a human being than did 
 these creatures imitate all that Fitzgeorge did, 
 said, looked, dressed, and perhaps thought. 
 Whenever, therefore, he appeared in Hyde Park 
 to take what is in London called and seriously 
 thought to be the air, but which in reality is the 
 refuse gas of a million lungs and the refuse 
 smoke of a million chimneys, gentlemen were 
 to be seen around him in rich abundance pester- 
 ing him with their multitudinous gazings, and 
 persecuting him with the homage of bows which 
 it was a task and a pleasure to return — a task 
 because there was so much of it to be done, and 
 a pleasure because he could do it so well. He 
 never, perhaps, heard any one say, but he knew 
 that every body did say, " How graceful is the 
 bow of Augustus Fitzgeorge ! " In that know- 
 ledge of course he was happy. 
 
 Having the power, as has been said above, to 
 select whom he would for his acquaintanceship, 
 
 vol. i. N
 
 266 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 he made, of course, that selection according to 
 his own accurate and exuberant taste. The 
 friends of Fitzgeorge were of various qualities 
 and of wide diversity of character, but they were 
 all chosen for the sake of some coincidence with 
 his own mind and feelings. If it may be per- 
 mitted in a slight and sketchy narrative like the 
 present, to aim at any speculations at all ap- 
 proaching the philosophic or analytical, we 
 might say, that as every human being has a 
 character formed from the combination of various 
 elements, as those elements are in every charac- 
 ter variously combined, and as in no two cha- 
 racters perhaps is there a decided similarity of 
 combination, no two individuals can be decided 
 and exclusive associates by virtue of a perfect 
 similarity of mind and a complete sympathy of 
 sentiment, but that association in friendship or 
 acquaintanceship results from a similarity and 
 coincidence in certain points. So we see in the 
 world there are various societies formed in which 
 the whole of the associates are met and do keep
 
 FITZGEOEGE. 267 
 
 together on only one point. So natural history 
 or philosophy may unite men who are not by 
 any means united on other matters ; so men may 
 coincide in politics who agree not on any other 
 topic. This will account for the variety in the 
 character of the associates of Fitzgeorge, and an 
 examination of the durability or otherwise of his 
 friendships, will show on what ground there was 
 sympathy and wherein the attraction consisted. 
 For thoughtless and unobservant people will 
 often say of such an one that he deserts his 
 friend, that he changes his mind, that he is 
 fickle, false, and capricious ; let us vindicate 
 Fitzgeorge from that reproach, should it be 
 found in the course of this little history that he 
 should fall away from any of those whom once 
 he may have professed to admire, esteem, or 
 befriend. 
 
 Our vindication may as well be made at this 
 period of the narrative, in which we are speaking 
 of Fitzgeorge's emerging from temporary obscu- 
 rity into the light of apparent prosperity and 
 n2
 
 268 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 renewed extravagance, for it is in these parox- 
 ysms of magnificence and splendour that men 
 have most friends. Whatever change there may- 
 be seen in the conduct or feelings of Fitzgeorge 
 towards those called his friends, that change is 
 more apparent than real, or the change is 
 founded on the same principle as that on which 
 the friendship was founded ; and surely wisdom 
 itself cannot demand or expect of the human 
 character greater consistency than this, that a 
 man's reason for ceasing his friendships should 
 be quite as good as his reasons for commencing 
 them. Thus with respect to Leppard, a man 
 differing in many points of view from Fitzgeorge, 
 and from most of Fitzgeorge's friends, it might 
 be said or thought that the integrity of his mind, 
 the generosity of his heart, the stores of his 
 knowledge, the kindness of his feelings never 
 ceased, never diminished, never changed — per- 
 haps not ; but it was not on account of these 
 things that Fitzgeorge sought his acquaintance, 
 or honoured him with his friendship ; Fitzgeorge
 
 FITZGEORGE. 269 
 
 was not attracted to Leppard by his integrity, 
 by his generosity, by his knowledge, or by his 
 benevolence, but by the sympathy of Whig poli- 
 tics; the moment, therefore, that sympathy 
 ceased, that very moment Fitzgeorge cared not 
 a straw for any of the mental and imtellectual 
 qualities which once perhaps he might have 
 professed to admire. Fitzgeorge loved wit, and 
 therefore he was attracted to Borrowman and 
 rejoiced in his friendship. Fitzgeorge had need 
 of some obedient, thick and thin counsellor and 
 negociator, who would serve him with a steady 
 and reckless zeal, who would go any where, say 
 any thing, and do every thing to serve him, there- 
 fore he loved Borrowman; and he confided in 
 him and spoke familiarly to him, and called 
 him his best friend, and perhaps for a while 
 actually thought him so. Fitzgeorge also loved 
 the symposium, the heartiness of a jolly party, 
 the sparkling wit that oozes from the sparkling 
 wine, the light of fun which gleams on the margin 
 of the mantling cup, the humour that springs from
 
 270 F1TZGE0RGE. 
 
 the social glass, and the adulatory incense 
 •which they who drink administer to him who 
 gives them drink. But when the taste changed, 
 when Borrowman 's wit grew dim, or Fitzgeorge's 
 apprehension of it grew dull ; — when by change 
 of circumstances there was no longer need of the 
 convenient aid of a spaniel friend ; — when Fitz- 
 george found it convenient to renounce his 
 Whiggery, and when the humour of Borrowman 
 cease to stimulate, and his services were no 
 longer needed, he was dismissed, forgotten, for- 
 saken, and neglected. Fitzgeorge might have 
 admired the virtues of Leppard's character and 
 the keen wit and good humour of Borrowman, 
 but the virtues of the one and the good humour 
 of the other were admired not merely as virtues 
 and good humour, but as the virtues and good 
 humour of convenient friends. 
 
 Nothing can be, therefore, plainer than that 
 when two persons are associated together, in 
 what the world calls friendship, the association 
 is not from a perfect but from a partial coinci-
 
 FITZGEOEGE. 271 
 
 deuce and sympathy. So we see wise men and 
 fools — good men and bad men — temporarily con- 
 nected in a friendship of what may be called an 
 imperfect sympathy. As Fitzgeorge was now 
 blazing forth again in a mighty brilliance of style, 
 and floating high on the frothy summit of po- 
 pular admiration, and as Ins highest glory was 
 that of dress and decoration, he most especially 
 drew the attention of the great masters of the 
 science of human ornament. Amongst these, or 
 rather at their head, was one Sir Nicholas Boba- 
 dil, who fain would have had the presumption 
 to contend with Fitzgeorge for the empire of 
 fashion. He piqued himself on the profundity 
 of his knowledge of what is called fashion, a 
 most curious topic indeed of knowledge, for 
 there is no possibility of saying in what record 
 it is kept, or by what means the knowledge is 
 to be acquired : for a time was when whatever 
 Sir Nicholas might do, and whatever Sir Ni- 
 cholas might wear, and whatever Sir Nicholas 
 might eat, and whatever Sir Nicholas might
 
 272 F1TZGE0RGE. 
 
 drink, was certain of being the fashion, absur- 
 dity, folly, or inconvenience being no bar what- 
 ever to its adoption. The mind of Sir Nicholas 
 was the store-room of fashion, and whatever 
 came from thence, or through that, was fashion- 
 able. 
 
 The union of two such mighty forces as Sir 
 Nicholas Bobadil and the Hon. Augustus Fitz- 
 george created much such a sensation in the 
 world of fashion, as the union of the courts of 
 Paris and London would create on the continent, 
 of Europe ; and the two new friends were proudly 
 conscious of the honourable and envied situa- 
 tion in which they stood. It is the lot of huma- 
 nity to be ruled by man. Much and proudly 
 as the human race may talk about independence, 
 it is a thing more talked about than apprehended. 
 We cannot be independent; — let independence 
 be presented to us, and we could not avail our- 
 selves of the boon. We must have leaders in 
 every thing. We must be told when and what 
 and how to eat. We have not spirit enough to
 
 FITZGEORGE. 273 
 
 choose the colour of our own clothes, or the 
 seasoning of our own meat, or the times of our 
 own eating and drinking. We must submit in 
 all these things to the dominion and despotism 
 of fashion. Who is fashion ? What is fashion ? 
 Let a man come into our house as we are sitting 
 at table, and take from us a dish that pleases 
 our palate, and place in its stead a mass of re- 
 pulsive cookery, insisting upon our eating that 
 which disgusts and is offensive — if that man be 
 called an officer of the king, we should regard 
 that king as a great and grievous tyrant ; but 
 let fashion dictate whatever vagaries it may 
 please, — directing and guiding us to any repul- 
 sive habits, or food, or drink, fashion must be 
 obeyed, and is cheerfully obeyed. Excellent is 
 the satire of the picture which represents a naked 
 man with a piece of cloth in one hand and a pair 
 of shears in the other, waiting to know in what 
 form fashion may direct him to cut his coat. 
 Let satire laugh, then, loudly as it will at the 
 absurd gravity of those who profess to set the 
 n3
 
 274 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 fashions, surely it may have a louder laugh at 
 those who, with greater gravity, and with more 
 absurdity, follow the fashions thus set. 
 
 Dress, however, is but part of a gentleman, 
 and is that which an ingenious tailor may make 
 for a man who is not a gentleman. Manner is 
 infinitely more, and that is what no tailor can 
 make — it is a species of freemasonry, which 
 none but the initiated can understand — it con- 
 sists of many mental tricks and aperies — it is the 
 suppressor of all real emotion, and the regulator 
 of all artificial emotion. It is. the measure of a 
 man's knowledge, and the dictator of his igno- 
 rance. It is the polished medium through which 
 he vents his self-conceit, and the music by which 
 he modulates his insolence to the uninitiated. 
 It can take all manner of forms, that of humility 
 or that of haughtiness — it can be Graceful or 
 disgraceful — it can break a heart, or it can bind 
 up a broken heart : — it may aspire to the lofti- 
 ness of poetry and philosophy, or affect the ig- 
 norance of an untaught girl. Pleasant for the
 
 FITZGEOHGE. 275 
 
 time, and illustrative of character, were the 
 many anecdotes related of this pair of superfine 
 gentlemen. They encouraged one another in 
 excesses of absurdity, and carried that absurdity 
 to such lengths, as to make it almost respect- 
 able by its excessiveness. Perhaps the true se- 
 cret of what is now, or has been recently, termed 
 dandyism, is definable in two words — it is the 
 seriousness of folly. Let the professors once 
 show that they regard their profession ludicrously, 
 the charm is broken and the mystery vanishes. 
 As a specimen of exquisite arrogance, the fol- 
 lowing reply has been attributed by some to 
 Fitzgeorge, and by others to Sir Nicholas Bob- 
 adil. They were exhibiting themselves in Hyde 
 Park, and they received much notice as usual, 
 some of which they acknowledged and others 
 of which they disdained to acknowledge. One 
 individual, in passing and repassing, had bowed 
 nearly twenty times without receiving any ac- 
 knowledgment, At length a bow was giv 4 en in 
 return. " You have returned his bow at last."
 
 276 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 — " Rather say his bows — one of mine is a re- 
 turn worth twenty of his." 
 
 It was Sir Nicholas Bobadil, we believe, who, 
 when dining at Fitzgeorge's table in company 
 with a bishop, and hearing mention made of the 
 " Act of Uniformity," affected to think that the 
 uniformity referred to the dress of the clergy, 
 and pretended to regard the act as very cruel and 
 oppressive.
 
 FITZGEORGE. 27' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 FATHER AND SON IN NO ADVANTAGEOUS 
 POINT OF VIEW. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that Lord Fitz- 
 george, who was so passionately fond of ruling, 
 should be excessively annoyed and indignant at 
 the thought that he could not rule his own son. 
 But Augustus bore restraint with sufficient im- 
 patience in his minority, and of course was not 
 likely to submit to it with a better grace when 
 his minority was passed. The parties were at 
 issue on the matter of ruling from this circum- 
 stance, viz., their high rank in society. Lord 
 Fitzgeorge being a lord, and ruling many vassals, 
 tenants, and dependents, thought it a hard and
 
 278 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 strange thing that he should not be able to rule 
 his own son; while, on the other hand, Augus- 
 tus Fitzgeorge, who was destined to rule over 
 others, thought it very strange that he should 
 not be suffered to rule himself. On this ground, 
 therefore, there was a perpetual struggle be- 
 tween the parties. 
 
 Lord Fitzgeorge, who was as near-sighted, 
 morally speaking, as a man could possibly be, 
 thought that he might excite the sympathy of 
 his neighbours and tenants against his son, by 
 appearing to the world as a pious and moral fa- 
 ther, opposed and thwarted by a vicious, pro- 
 fligate, and extravagant son. So that even in 
 his lordship's devotions, whatever sincerity there 
 might be in them, there was a strong admix- 
 ture of earthly and malignant feeling. Having 
 also a strong inclination to penurious habits, and 
 no taste for the amusements and elegancies of 
 life, he thought to exhibit to his tenants a con- 
 trast with his more expensive son. But herein 
 they could see through him, and were not easily
 
 PITZGEORGE. 279 
 
 deceived, except some few, such as were parti- 
 cularly favoured in the rent of their farms, or 
 such as had the run of the pantry at the hall. 
 Generally speaking, his tenants knew him too 
 well to be deceived by him; for though they saw 
 that he was penurious in trifles, yet they knew 
 he was extravagant in other matters, and that 
 
 he had very much wasted and exhausted their 
 resources by litigations with his neighbours, 
 
 great part of the expense of which fell upon 
 them; and they also knew that he was always 
 sending money to his wife's poor relations. 
 
 Augustus Fitzgeorge, who thought himself 
 exceedingly ill-treated by his father, wished also 
 to gain partisans among his neighbours, by let- 
 ting the world see how ill-disposed his father 
 was towards him> For this purpose he con- 
 trived, after there had been some unpleasant 
 correspondence between them, or some discus- 
 sion of an irritating nature, to meet his father 
 in public, and appear to salute him most respect- 
 fully ; and then, when the bow was not returned,
 
 280 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 every one would be sure to say, that no one could 
 behave more respectfully to a parent than Au- 
 gustus did to Lord Fitzgeorge, but that the harsh 
 and unforgiving father was so unnatural as not 
 to return his salutation. Now, in the salutation 
 of Augustus Fitzgeorge there was such a cap- 
 tivating elegance, that all the world was charmed 
 with it ; but the very elaborateness and studied 
 carefulness of his manner appeared to his father 
 more in the light of a mockery; this politeness, 
 therefore, instead of at all conciliating, rather 
 the more irritated and provoking. 
 
 It happened one day, that as Drury Borrow- 
 man, who never heeded what he said to Fitz- 
 george or to any one else, was dining with him in 
 private, and the conversation turned on their pe- 
 cuniary difficulties, Fitzgeorge remarked, " I 
 know not how it is, but it seems to me that 
 there is nothing saved by saving-.' 1 
 
 " There is something lost by it," replied Bor- 
 rowman, " and that is time, patience, spirits, 
 and enjoyment."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 281 
 
 " There is my most honoured and worthy 
 father," said Fitzgeorge, " who is so saving that 
 his fingers always smell of copper ; I wonder 
 what he can be saving for." 
 
 " For fun," replied Borrowman ; " it is very 
 fine fun for a man to have in the last days of 
 his life his pocket full of money, and his brains 
 full of maggots, and to set his poor relations 
 hunting after his maggots for the sake of his 
 money." 
 
 Fitzgeorge coupled something of an oath with 
 the mention of poor relations. 
 
 " It appears to me rather odd," said Borrow- 
 man, " that your father should so persecute you, 
 and, I may say, rob you for the sake of your 
 mother's relations. I was talking about you the 
 other day with Leppard, and we agreed that you 
 ought to call the old gentleman to some account 
 about the management of vour affairs during 
 your minority. You have been imposed on most 
 grossly. He is remarkably fond of a good name 
 among his neighbours and dependents, and if
 
 282 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 you but threaten to show him up and to make 
 a legal investigation of the matter, he will not 
 care how he fleeces his tenants to save himself 
 and his darling reputation. He has not spirit 
 enough to aspire after the character of a good 
 fellow, but he goes sneaking about to get him- 
 self the reputation of being a good man." 
 
 " Now you mention this, I am inclined to 
 think that there is really something in it. 
 The rents of my estates and the interest of my 
 property must have been more than enough for 
 all the expenses of my minority. But the fact 
 is that I know no more about arithmetic, as a 
 matter of business, or as applicable to pecuni- 
 ary transactions, than a mere child does. Let 
 us talk to Graves about it." 
 
 " Certainly," replied Borrowman, " he is the 
 best person to speak to in the first instance. He 
 will for his own credit's sake do what he can to 
 prevent the exposure. Upon my word, you 
 great folks seem to do just what you like, and 
 to pay no regard whatever to the law."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 283 
 
 " Ay," replied Fitzgeorge, u we may some- 
 times laugh at the law, when we can contrive to 
 manage or to silence it, but we never laugh at 
 public opinion* We are by that kept in check. 
 That is our law, and when that is in our favour 
 we care for no other." 
 
 " I will speak to Graves on this subject," said 
 Borrowman. 
 
 " I will leave the matter entirely in your 
 hands," answered Fitzgeorge, " for I believe 
 that I have not in the world a surer, steadier, 
 more faithful, or more talented friend than you 
 are. The time may come, Borrowman, when I 
 may have it in my power to reward your ser- 
 vices with something more substantial than 
 hollow thanks and unsubstantial praises." 
 
 ■ My dear fellow," said Borrowman, " my 
 services, such as they are, reward themselves." 
 It is well that they did, for he never got any 
 other reward. 
 
 In pursuance of his resolution Borrowman 
 waited on the deep and solemn Mr. Graves.
 
 284 FITZGEORGE, 
 
 There was no person whom Mr. Graves disliked 
 more than, or indeed so much, as Drury Bor- 
 rowman. If a demure, matter-of-fact kind of a 
 gentleman dislikes a merry Andrew he has a 
 still greater abomination for a jack pudding, and 
 he that looks down contemptuously on a lion 
 looks down with still greater contempt on a 
 jackal. Thus did Mr. Graves regard Drury 
 Borrowman ; for despising the principal, he still 
 more despised the friend and humble companion. 
 Besides Borrowman had the reputation of being 
 something of a wit, which was of all things the 
 most odious to Mr. Graves ; for he could not 
 see what was the use of wit. He had been 
 brought up to business, and to the exact keep- 
 ing of accounts and collecting of rents, and he 
 could not see the use of any people in the world, 
 save landlords, tenants, and collectors of rents. 
 He thought that tenants were very useful to 
 occupy farms, and landlords he considered as 
 properly engaged when they lived in great 
 houses and rode in fine coaches, and looked as
 
 TITZGEORGE. 285 
 
 wise and as solemn as owls. Any thing ap- 
 proaching to a joke was his utter abomination. 
 
 When Borrowman, therefore, was ushered into 
 the little room where Mr. Graves sat, surrounded 
 with books, bills, parchments, and all the so- 
 lemn apparatus of business, the impatient stew- 
 ard thrust his pen behind his ear, pushed back 
 his spectacles over his forehead, and putting his 
 hands into his waiscoat pockets, he said, "Well, 
 sir, what is your business ?" He used the word 
 business with such an emphasis as to indicate 
 that he wished to hear of nothing but business, 
 and to hear that treated in a business-like 
 manner. 
 
 " Sir," replied Borrowman, with a kind of 
 mock solemnity and half-laughing gravity, u I 
 have the honour to wait on you on most im- 
 portant business. I presume you are acquainted 
 with my worthy friend, the Hon. Augustus Fitz- 
 george." 
 
 " I am sorry to say that I am," replied Mr. 
 Graves ; " very sorry — and I am sorry that you
 
 286 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 are so too ; but I am glad that I am not so in* 
 timately acquainted with him as you are." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Graves," replied Borrowman, 
 u I am quite at a loss to know which is the 
 greatest, your joy or your sorrow." 
 
 " Perhaps, ~sir," said Mr. Graves, rather pet- 
 tishly, " it does not much signify ; for if you 
 did know, you would neither sympathize with 
 my sorrows nor exult in my joys. But if you 
 have business here, state it ; if not " 
 
 Mr. Graves made a pause — and Borrowman 
 finished the sentence for him, by saying — " Ay ! 
 — if not, you think, I suppose, that I have no 
 business here. Very good ! But mark me, Mr. 
 Graves — I have business here of rather a serious 
 nature. My business is to inquire whether you 
 are prepared to give, when called upon, a full 
 statement of the expenses of the education of 
 the Hon. Augustus Fitzgeorge." 
 
 " A what?" said Mr. Graves, with all the 
 solemnity and indignation of an undertaker in a 
 passion. " I shall give no such account !"
 
 FITZGEORGE. 287 
 
 ■ And will you advise Lord Fitzgeorge to re- 
 fuse the statement, should it be formally de- 
 manded V 
 
 " For what purpose can it be asked ?" re- 
 plied Mr. Graves ; " and who is to demand it V 
 
 u It is to be asked for the purpose of informa- 
 tion," said Borrowman ; * and it is to be de- 
 manded by him who has a right and an autho- 
 rity to demand it. You may put a solemn face 
 on the matter ; but you will not be able to stop 
 inquiry by wise looks. If your master has no- 
 thing to fear from the investigation, he will 
 suffer it to be made ; — if he has, he will know 
 how to prevent it." 
 
 Mr. Graves sat uneasily in his chair, and 
 looked as if he fain would be rid of his trouble- 
 some visiter, but as if he almost feared that it 
 would be dangerous to send him away unsatis- 
 fied or unpropitiated. The solemn steward, 
 therefore, relaxed a little from the rigidity of his 
 manners, and said, " Mr. Borrowman, this is,
 
 288 F1TZGEORGE. 
 
 indeed, a curious and rather singular sort of 
 inquiry. Tis very odd that no mention has been 
 made of it before this time. I suppose that some 
 of Fitzgeorge's friends have been raising this 
 foolish suspicion in his mind. But can you se- 
 riously imagine that the world will believe it 
 possible that so good and pious a man as Lord 
 Fitzo'eorge has been guilty of so gross a derelic- 
 tion of principle as to rob or plunder his own 
 son?" 
 
 " What the world may think I cannot say," 
 replied Borrowman ; " but I will tell you plainly 
 what I think. I think and I know, and you 
 know that the whole annual proceeds of the 
 estates and properties of Augustus Fitzgeorge 
 were not spent in his maintenance and educa- 
 tion during his minority ; they must, therefore, 
 have been otherwise applied. So my good Mr. 
 Graves, just as a matter of curiosity, we should 
 like to know what has become of the money. It 
 must be somewhere: and it is an inquiry in
 
 F1TZGEORGE. 289 
 
 which I am exceedingly interested to know where 
 it is. You can assist me in the inquiry, and so 
 perhaps can Lord Fitzgeorge himself." 
 
 " You are interested in the inquiry ?" said Mr. 
 Graves, rather sneeringly ; " no doubt you are 
 interested ; and may I ask to what amount V* 
 
 " To what amount?'' responded Borrowman : 
 " I cannot understand you." 
 
 " Yes, yes," answered Mr. Graves, " you 
 can understand ; but perhaps it is desirable that 
 I should speak a little more plainly. You 
 are interested, Mr. Borrowman, in making an 
 inquiry, and your interest is to a certain amount, 
 either expressed or understood : suppose, now, 
 it should be found that your interest should be 
 greater to be silent, and suppress inquiry, than 
 it is to promote inquiry. You can easily imagine 
 that to be the case." 
 
 " So you think, Mr. Graves, that you can buy 
 me over from my friend." 
 
 " Politicians are marketable articles, Mr. Bor- 
 rowman." 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 290 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 , " But friends are not, Mr. Graves.'' 
 
 "A hem!" replied Mr. Graves; "Friends! 
 Friend is a fine word ; but if a man is fond of 
 being a friend, the best person that he can be a 
 friend to is himself. He that is evil to himself, 
 to whom will he be good ?" 
 : Borrowman smiled, and replied, " No, no — 
 'twill not do. I do not hold my own esteem so 
 lightly as to play the traitor to him who depends 
 on my friendship, who confides in me who 
 wishes .me well." 
 
 " I know Fitzgeorge better than you do," re- 
 plied Mr. Graves : " let it be his interest, his 
 passion, his caprice, or his desire from any cause 
 whatever, to be rid of you and your friendship, 
 he will let you go as coolly as he will part with 
 an empty bottle." 
 
 " Ay, but I am not an empty bottle yet," re- 
 plied Borrowman. 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but he will make you, or think 
 .you so. Besides, what good can he do you V 
 
 " Not much at present; but a time may 
 come "
 
 F1TZGEORGE. 291 
 
 " Borrowman, you are a goose," said Mr. 
 Graves, with rather more animation than usual ; 
 you know nothing of the world. You have head 
 enough for a dozen, and vet too much heart for 
 your head. For whom does a sensualist care but 
 for himself ? You minister to his pleasures now, 
 and he flatters you, and calls you friend. So 
 you think, that when he becomes Lord Fitz- 
 george he will take as much pains to befriend 
 you, as you now take to befriend him. Not he, 
 depend upon it, he will want a new T set of friends 
 then, and friends of a different kind — not men 
 of pleasure, but men of business." 
 
 " He will never be a man of business," re- 
 plied Borrowman. 
 
 " Certainly he will not," answered Graves ; 
 " and for that reason he must put himself into 
 the hands of men of business." 
 
 u Look ye here," said Borrowman, almost 
 angry at the insinuations cast out against his 
 friend Fitzgeorge, " I am not a man of business, 
 and never shall be, if by a man of business
 
 292 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 you mean a crafty, time-serving, selfish, money- 
 getting varlet, with no other idea than that of 
 pounds, shillings and pence. ,, 
 
 " Pounds, shillings and pence are very use- 
 ful things, Mr. Borrowman," said Mr. Graves ; 
 " some of these days you may find them so." 
 
 " One word for all," answered Borrowman : 
 " I tell you plainly, that if some account be not 
 very soon rendered to my friend, the Honourable 
 Augustus Fitzgeorge, of the monies spent in his 
 education and maintenance during his minority, 
 legal and vigorous measures will speedily be 
 taken to compel an account. Your precious, pious, 
 fatherly, economical, home-keeping Lord Fitz- 
 george shall be exposed in his true colours ; — 
 the world shall see and know what they now very 
 little suspect to be that man's true character." 
 
 "Why, surely, Mr. Borrowman," replied 
 Graves, " you will never be guilty of so gross 
 a violation of all decency as to advise and en- 
 courage a son to go to law with his own father ! 
 And suppose, after all, be should be defeated."
 
 FITZGEORGE. 
 
 293 
 
 " A fiddlestick's end!" said Borrowman; — 
 " decency, indeed ! What sort of decency has 
 Lord Fitzgeorge shown towards his son ? I am 
 occupying your valuable time, Mr. Graves ; so 
 I will leave you with the intimation, that unless 
 some account is soon forthcoming, you and your 
 master shall hear of it." 
 
 So saying, Borrowman departed to tell Fitz- 
 george the success of his mission, and to exult 
 in the anticipation, that means would soon be 
 forthcoming for a little more splendour and a 
 little more extravagance on the part of his be- 
 loved and esteemed friend, Fitzgeorge. Some 
 persons who knew the parties better than they 
 knew themselves, were very much surprised that 
 a man of so much acuteness as Borrowman should 
 not be able to discover more clearly the real cha- 
 racter of Fitzgeorge ; but the fact was, as Mr. 
 Graves had told him, he had too much heart for 
 his head ; he suffered his feelings to run away 
 with his judgment. 
 
 Mr. Graves, meanwhile, betook himself to his
 
 294 TITZGEORGE. 
 
 master's house, and laid before him, in terms 
 as gentle as he could devise, the threats which 
 had been used by Borrowman. 
 
 "What, what, what !" said his Lordship; "is 
 it come to that? I think I had trouble enough with 
 him in his minority, without being now called 
 to account for the administration of his funds. 
 I'll not be bullied, Mr. Graves, I'll not be 
 bullied. Let him do his worst; let him go to 
 law; let him appeal to the world. Will the 
 world believe any thing against me? Don't I 
 go to church every Sunday, and sometimes ^n 
 saints' days too ? Am I not a very religious 
 man, and do I not make all those clergy very re- 
 ligious who look up to me for livings ? Are not 
 all the influential people, by whose opinions the 
 world is guided, and who, in fact, are the ex- 
 pression of the world's opinions, in expectation 
 of more from my patronage than they are from 
 that of my son? He cannot injure me, Mr. 
 Graves. He cannot take from me my good 
 name. The world will not heed him; he is
 
 FITZGEOKGE. 295 
 
 gay, extravagant, and irreligious. His creditors 
 will not believe him — they have believed him 
 too much already." 
 
 " His creditors, my lord," replied Mr. Graves, 
 " will be the most ready to believe him. They 
 will hope, from the proceeds of the litigation, to 
 gain some part at least of their demands." 
 
 " True, true, yes, yes, I know all that/' said 
 Lord Fitzgeorge, " I don't need to be reminded. 
 I see how it is perfectly. We must stop his 
 mouth, and take care that the world knows no- 
 thing about the matter. You shall go to church 
 with me to-morrow, and sit in my pew, if my 
 wife is not there. And mark me, Graves, look 
 as piously as you possibly can. Turn up your 
 eyes when you say amen, and say it loud enough 
 to be heard all over the church. On Monday 
 you shall call on young Scapegrace and give him 
 some money, and then you must compel him to 
 promise secrecy as to the cause, and you must 
 give his creditors to understand that I have paid 
 them out of mere compassion."
 
 296 PITZGEORGE. 
 
 " Your lordship is profound in wisdom," said 
 Mr. Graves. " There is not such another to be 
 found in the kingdom.' ' 
 
 " Don't flatter, Mr. Graves," replied Lord 
 Fitzgeorge, you know I like not flattery ; if you 
 would try your skill at flattery go to my son, 
 he loves flattery, and he will reward you for it 
 with fine promises, quite as much as it is 
 worth." 
 
 " I feel no inclination," said Mr. Graves, 'ito 
 leave wisdom for folly, carefulness for extrava- 
 gance, piety for profanity." 
 
 Lord Fitzgeorge bowed, Mr. Graves bowed, 
 and they separated. " Deep fellow, deep fel- 
 low," said his lordship to himself, " understands 
 his business well, and I understand mine too." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSB, STRAND.
 
 qOND^ 
 
 m