CHAPTER XLVII.
Ambition is a lottery, where, however uneven the chances,
there are some prizes; but in dissipation, every one draws
a blank.
--Letters of Stephen Montague.
The season was not far advanced before I grew heartily tired of what are
nicknamed its gaieties; I shrunk, by rapid degrees, into a very small
orbit, from which I rarely moved. I had already established a certain
reputation for eccentricity, coxcombry, and, to my great astonishment,
also for talent; and my pride was satisfied with finding myself
universally recherche, whilst I indulged my inclinations by rendering
myself universally scarce. I saw much of Vincent, whose varied
acquirements and great talents became more and more perceptible, both as
my own acquaintance with him increased, and as the political events with
which that year was pregnant, called forth their exertion and display. I
went occasionally to Lady Roseville's, and was always treated rather as a
long-known friend, than an ordinary acquaintance; nor did I undervalue
this distinction, for it was part of her pride to render her house not
only as splendid, but as agreeable, as her command over society enabled
her to effect.
At the House of Commons my visits would have been duly paid, but for one
trifling occurrence, upon which, as it is a very sore subject, I shall
dwell as briefly as possible. I had scarcely taken my seat, before I was
forced to relinquish it. My unsuccessful opponent, Mr. Lufton, preferred
a petition against me, for what he called undue means. God knows what he
meant; I am sure the House did not, for they turned me out, and declared
Mr. Lufton duly elected.
Never was there such a commotion in the Glenmorris family before. My
uncle was seized with the gout in his stomach, and my mother shut herself
up with Tremaine, and one China monster, for a whole week. As for me,
though I writhed at heart, I bore the calamity philosophically enough in
external appearance, nor did I the less busy myself in political matters:
with what address and success, good or bad, I endeavoured to supply the
loss of my parliamentary influence, the reader will see, when it suits
the plot of this history to touch upon such topics.
Glanville I saw continually. When in tolerable spirits, he was an
entertaining, though never a frank nor a communicative companion. His
conversation then was lively, yet without wit, and sarcastic, though
without bitterness. It abounded also in philosophical reflections and
terse maxims, which always brought improvement, or, at the worst, allowed
discussion. He was a man of even vast powers--of deep thought--of
luxuriant, though dark imagination, and of great miscellaneous, though,
perhaps, ill arranged erudition. He was fond of paradoxes in reasoning,
and supported them with a subtlety and strength of mind, which Vincent,
who admired him greatly, told me he had never seen surpassed. He was
subject, at times, to a gloom and despondency, which seemed almost like
aberration of intellect. At those hours he would remain perfectly silent,
and apparently forgetful of my presence, and of every object around him.
It was only then, when the play of his countenance was vanished, and his
features were still and set, that you saw in their full extent, the dark
and deep traces of premature decay. His cheek was hollow and hueless; his
eye dim, and of that visionary and glassy aspect, which is never seen but
in great mental or bodily disease, and which, according to the
superstitions of some nations, implies a mysterious and unearthly
communion of the soul with the beings of another world. From these
trances he would sometimes start abruptly, and renew any conversation
broken off before, as if wholly unconscious of the length of his reverie.
At others, he would rise slowly from his seat, and retire into his own
apartment, from which he never emerged during the rest of the day.
But the reader must bear in mind that there was nothing artificial or
affected in his musings, of whatever complexion they might be. Nothing
like the dramatic brown studies, and quick starts, which young gentlemen,
in love with Lara and Lord Byron, are apt to practise. There never,
indeed, was a character that possessed less cant of any description. His
work, which was a singular, wild tale--of mingled passion and reflection-
-was, perhaps, of too original, certainly of too abstract a nature, to
suit the ordinary novel readers of the day. It did not acquire popularity
for itself, but it gained great reputation for the author. It also
inspired every one who read it, with a vague and indescribable interest
to see and know the person who had composed so singular a work.
This interest he was the first to laugh at, and to disappoint. He shrunk
from all admiration, and from all sympathy. At the moment when a crowd
assembled round him, and every ear was bent to catch the words, which
came alike from so beautiful a lip, and so strange and imaginative a
mind, it was his pleasure to utter some sentiment totally different from
his written opinion, and utterly destructive of the sensation he had
excited. But it was very rarely that he exposed himself to these "trials
of an author." He went out little to any other house but Lady
Roseville's, and it was seldom more than once a week that he was seen
even there. Lonely, and singular in mind and habits, he lived in the
world like a person occupied by a separate object, and possessed of a
separate existence, from that of his fellow-beings. He was luxurious and
splendid, beyond all men, in his habits, rather than his tastes. His
table groaned beneath a weight of gold, too costly for the daily service
even of a prince; but he had no pleasure in surveying it. His wines and
viands were of the most exquisite description; but he scarcely tasted
them. Yet, what may seem inconsistent, he was averse to all ostentation
and show in the eyes of others. He admitted very few into his society--no
one so intimately as myself. I never once saw more than three persons at
his table. He seemed, in his taste for furniture, in his love of
literature, and his pursuit after fame, to be, as he himself said,
eternally endeavouring to forget and eternally brought back to
remembrance.
"I pity that man even more than I admire him," said Vincent to me, one
night when we were walking home from Glanville's house. "His is, indeed,
the disease nulla medicabilis herba. Whether it is the past or the
present that afflicts him--whether it is the memory of past evil, or the
satiety of present good, he has taken to his heart the bitterest
philosophy of life. He does not reject its blessings--he gathers them
around him, but as a stone gathers moss--cold, hard, unsoftened by the
freshness and the greenness which surround it. As a circle can only touch
a circle in one place, every thing that life presents to him, wherever it
comes from--to whatever portion of his soul it is applied--can find but
one point of contact; and that is the soreness of affliction: whether it
is the oblivio or the otium that he requires, he finds equally that he is
for ever in want of one treasure:--'neque gemmis neque purpura venale nec
auro.'"
