CHAPTER VII.
_At Castle Dacre_
THE moment that was to dissolve the spell which had combined andenchanted so many thousands of human beings arrived. Nobles andnobodies, beauties and blacklegs, dispersed in all directions. The Dukeof Burlington carried off the French princes and the Protocolis, theBloomerlys and the Vaticans, to his Paradise of Marringworth. TheFitz-pompeys cantered off with the Shropshires; omen of felicity tothe enamoured St. Maurice and the enamouring Sophy. Annesley and Squibreturned to their pates. Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite, neither of themwith tempers like summer skies, betook their way to Cambridgeshire, likeAdam and Eve from the glorious garden. The Duke of St. James, after ahurried visit to London, found himself, at the beginning of October, onhis way to Dacre.
As his carriage rolled on he revelled in delicious fancies. The youngDuke built castles not only at Hauteville, but in less substantialregions. Reverie, in the flush of our warm youth, generally indulges inthe future. We are always anticipating the next adventure and clothe thecoming heroine with a rosy tint. When we advance a little on our limitedjourney, and an act or two of the comedy, the gayest in all probability,are over, the wizard Memory dethrones the witch Imagination, and 'tisthe past on which the mind feeds in its musings. 'Tis then we ponderon each great result which has stolen on us without the labour ofreflection; 'tis then we analyse emotions which, at the time, we couldnot comprehend, and probe the action which passion inspired, and whichprejudice has hitherto defended. Alas! who can strike these occasionalbalances in life's great ledger without a sigh! Alas! how little dothey promise in favour of the great account! What whisperings of finalbankruptcy! what a damnable consciousness of present insolvency! Myfriends! what a blunder is youth! Ah! why does Truth light her torch butto illume the ruined temple of our existence! Ah! why do we know we aremen only to be conscious of our exhausted energies!
And yet there is a pleasure in a deal of judgment which your judiciousman alone can understand. It is agreeable to see some younkers fallinginto the same traps which have broken our own shins; and, shipwreckedon the island of our hopes, one likes to mark a vessel go down full insight. 'Tis demonstration that we are not branded as Cains among thefavoured race of man. Then giving advice: that _is_ delicious, andperhaps repays one all. It is a privilege your grey-haired signorssolely can enjoy; but young men now-a-days may make some claims to it.And, after all, experience is a thing that all men praise. Bards singits glories, and proud Philosophy has long elected it her favouritechild. 'Tis the '_ro Kaxav_', in spite of all its ugliness, and the_elixir vitae_, though we generally gain it with a shattered pulse.
No more! no more! it is a bitter cheat, the consolation of blunderers,the last refuge of expiring hopes, the forlorn battalion that is tocapture the citadel of happiness; yet, yet impregnable! Oh! what iswisdom, and what is virtue, without youth! Talk not to me of knowledgeof mankind; give, give me back the sunshine of the breast which theyo'erclouded! Talk not to me of proud morality; oh! give me innocence!
Amid the ruins of eternal Rome I scribble pages lighter than the wind,and feed with fancies volumes which will be forgotten ere I can hearthat they are even published. Yet am I not one insensible to the magicof my memorable abode, and I could pour my passion o'er the land; but Irepress my thoughts, and beat their tide back to their hollow caves!
The ocean of my mind is calm, but dim, and ominous of storms that mayarise. A cloud hangs heavy o'er the horizon's verge, and veils thefuture. Even now a star appears, steals into light, and now again'tis gone! I hear the proud swell of the growing waters; I hear thewhispering of the wakening winds; but reason lays her trident on thecresting waves, and all again is hushed.
For I am one, though young, yet old enough to know ambition is a demon;and I fly from what I fear. And fame has eagle wings, and yet she mountsnot so high as man's desires. When all is gained, how little then iswon! And yet to gain that little how much is lost! Let us once aspireand madness follows. Could we but drag the purple from the hero's heart;could we but tear the laurel from the poet's throbbing brain, and readtheir doubts, their dangers, their despair, we might learn a greaterlesson than we shall ever acquire by musing over their exploits ortheir inspiration. Think of unrecognised Caesar, with his wasting youth,weeping over the Macedonian's young career! Could Pharsalia compensatefor those withering pangs? View the obscure Napoleon starving inthe streets of Paris! What was St. Helena to the bitterness ofsuch existence? The visions of past glory might illumine even thatdark-imprisonment; but to be conscious that his supernatural energiesmight die away without creating their miracles: can the wheel or therack rival the torture of such a suspicion? Lo! Byron bending o'er hisshattered lyre, with inspiration in his very rage. And the pert tauntcould sting even this child of light! To doubt of the truth of thecreed in which you have been nurtured is not so terrific as to doubtrespecting the intellectual vigour on whose strength you have stakedyour happiness. Yet these were mighty ones; perhaps the records of theworld will not yield us threescore to be their mates! Then tremble, yewhose cheek glows too warmly at their names! Who would be more than manshould fear lest he be less.
Yet there is hope, there should be happiness, for them, for all. KindNature, ever mild, extends her fond arms to her truant children, andbreathes her words of solace. As we weep on her indulgent and maternalbreast, the exhausted passions, one by one, expire like gladiators inyon huge pile that has made barbarity sublime. Yes! there is hope andjoy; and it is here!
Where the breeze wanders through a perfumed sky, and where the beautifulsun illumines beauty.
On the poet's farm and on the conqueror's arch thy beam is lingering!It lingers on the shattered porticoes that once shrouded from thyo'erpowering glory the lords of earth; it lingers upon the ruinedtemples that even in their desolation are yet sacred! 'Tis gone, asif in sorrow! Yet the woody lake still blushes with thy warm kiss; andstill thy rosy light tinges the pine that breaks the farthest heaven!
A heaven all light, all beauty, and all love! What marvel men shouldworship in these climes? And lo! a small and single cloud is sailing inthe immaculate ether, burnished with twilight, like an Olympian chariotfrom above, with the fair vision of some graceful god!
It is the hour that poets love; but I crush thoughts that rise from outmy mind, like nymphs from out their caves, when sets the sun. Yes, 'tisa blessing here to breathe and muse. And cold his clay, indeed, who doesnot yield to thy Ausonian beauty! Clime where the heart softens and themind expands! Region of mellowed bliss! O most enchanting land!
But we are at the park gates.
They whirled along through a park which would have contained half ahundred of those Patagonian paddocks of modern times which have usurpedthe name. At length the young Duke was roused from his reverieby Carlstein, proud of his previous knowledge, leaning over andannouncing--
'Chateau de Dacre, your Grace!'
The Duke looked up. The sun, which had already set, had tinged with adying crimson the eastern sky, against which rose a princely edifice.Castle Dacre was the erection of Vanbrugh, an imaginative artist,whose critics we wish no bitterer fate than not to live in his splendidcreations. A spacious centre, richly ornamented, though broken, perhaps,into rather too much detail, was joined to wings of a correspondingmagnificence by fanciful colonnades. A terrace, extending the wholefront, was covered with orange trees, and many a statue, and many anobelisk, and many a temple, and many a fountain, were tinted withthe warm twilight. The Duke did not view the forgotten scene of youthwithout emotion. It was a palace worthy of the heroine on whom he hadbeen musing. The carriage gained the lofty portal. Luigi and Spiridion,who had preceded their master, were ready to receive the Duke, who wasimmediately ushered to the rooms prepared for his reception. He waslater than he had intended, and no time was to be unnecessarily lost inhis preparation for his appearance.
His Grace's toilet was already prepared: the magical dressing-boxhad been unpacked, and the shrine for his devotions was coveredwith richly-cut bottles
of all sizes, arranged in all the elegantcombinations which the picturesque fancy of his valet could devise,adroitly intermixed with the golden instruments, the china vases, andthe ivory and rosewood brushes, which were worthy even of Delcroix'sexquisite inventions.
The Duke of St. James was master of the art of dress, and consequentlyconsummated that paramount operation with the decisive rapidity of onewhose principles are settled. He was cognisant of all effects, couldcalculate in a second all consequences, and obtained his result withthat promptitude and precision which stamp the great artist. For amoment he was plunged in profound abstraction, and at the same timestretched his legs after his drive. He then gave his orders with thedecision of Wellington on the arrival of the Prussians, and the battlebegan.
His Grace had a taste for magnificence in costume; but he was handsome,young, and a duke. Pardon him. Yet to-day he was, on the whole, simple.Confident in a complexion whose pellucid lustre had not yielded to aseason of dissipation, his Grace did not dread the want of relief whicha white face, a white cravat, and a white waistcoat would seem to imply.
A hair chain set in diamonds, worn in memory of the absent Aphrodite,and to pique the present Dacre, is annexed to a glass, which reposesin the waistcoat pocket. This was the only weight that the Duke of St.James ever carried. It was a bore, but it was indispensable.
It is done. He stops one moment before the long pier-glass, and shootsa glance which would have read the mind of Talleyrand. It will do.He assumes the look, the air that befit the occasion: cordial, butdignified; sublime, but sweet. He descends like a deity from Olympus toa banquet of illustrious mortals.
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