CHAPTER XLVII.
Ambition is a lottery, where, however uneven the chances, there aresome prizes; but in dissipation, every one draws a blank.--Letters ofStephen Montague.
The season was not far advanced before I grew heartily tired of what arenicknamed its gaieties; I shrunk, by rapid degrees, into a very smallorbit, from which I rarely moved. I had already established a certainreputation for eccentricity, coxcombry, and, to my great astonishment,also for talent; and my pride was satisfied with finding myselfuniversally recherche, whilst I indulged my inclinations by renderingmyself universally scarce. I saw much of Vincent, whose variedacquirements and great talents became more and more perceptible, both asmy own acquaintance with him increased, and as the political events withwhich that year was pregnant, called forth their exertion and display. Iwent occasionally to Lady Roseville's, and was always treated rather asa long-known friend, than an ordinary acquaintance; nor did I undervaluethis distinction, for it was part of her pride to render her house notonly as splendid, but as agreeable, as her command over society enabledher to effect.
At the House of Commons my visits would have been duly paid, but for onetrifling occurrence, upon which, as it is a very sore subject, I shalldwell as briefly as possible. I had scarcely taken my seat, before I wasforced to relinquish it. My unsuccessful opponent, Mr. Lufton, preferreda petition against me, for what he called undue means. God knows what hemeant; I am sure the House did not, for they turned me out, and declaredMr. 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 shutherself up with Tremaine, and one China monster, for a whole week. Asfor me, though I writhed at heart, I bore the calamity philosophicallyenough in external appearance, nor did I the less busy myself inpolitical matters: with what address and success, good or bad, Iendeavoured to supply the loss of my parliamentary influence, the readerwill see, when it suits the plot of this history to touch upon suchtopics.
Glanville I saw continually. When in tolerable spirits, he was anentertaining, though never a frank nor a communicative companion. Hisconversation then was lively, yet without wit, and sarcastic, thoughwithout bitterness. It abounded also in philosophical reflectionsand terse maxims, which always brought improvement, or, at theworst, allowed discussion. He was a man of even vast powers--ofdeep thought--of luxuriant, though dark imagination, and of greatmiscellaneous, though, perhaps, ill arranged erudition. He was fond ofparadoxes in reasoning, and supported them with a subtlety and strengthof mind, which Vincent, who admired him greatly, told me he had neverseen surpassed. He was subject, at times, to a gloom and despondency,which seemed almost like aberration of intellect. At those hours hewould 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 hisfeatures were still and set, that you saw in their full extent, the darkand deep traces of premature decay. His cheek was hollow and hueless;his eye dim, and of that visionary and glassy aspect, which is neverseen but in great mental or bodily disease, and which, according tothe superstitions of some nations, implies a mysterious and unearthlycommunion of the soul with the beings of another world. From thesetrances he would sometimes start abruptly, and renew any conversationbroken off before, as if wholly unconscious of the length of hisreverie. At others, he would rise slowly from his seat, and retire intohis own apartment, from which he never emerged during the rest of theday.
But the reader must bear in mind that there was nothing artificial oraffected in his musings, of whatever complexion they might be.Nothing like the dramatic brown studies, and quick starts, which younggentlemen, in love with Lara and Lord Byron, are apt to practise.There never, indeed, was a character that possessed less cant of anydescription. His work, which was a singular, wild tale--of mingledpassion and reflection--was, perhaps, of too original, certainly of tooabstract a nature, to suit the ordinary novel readers of the day. It didnot acquire popularity for itself, but it gained great reputation forthe author. It also inspired every one who read it, with a vague andindescribable interest to see and know the person who had composed sosingular a work.
This interest he was the first to laugh at, and to disappoint. He shrunkfrom all admiration, and from all sympathy. At the moment when a crowdassembled round him, and every ear was bent to catch the words, whichcame alike from so beautiful a lip, and so strange and imaginative amind, it was his pleasure to utter some sentiment totally different fromhis written opinion, and utterly destructive of the sensation he hadexcited. But it was very rarely that he exposed himself to these"trials of an author." He went out little to any other house but LadyRoseville's, and it was seldom more than once a week that he was seeneven there. Lonely, and singular in mind and habits, he lived in theworld like a person occupied by a separate object, and possessed of aseparate existence, from that of his fellow-beings. He was luxuriousand splendid, beyond all men, in his habits, rather than his tastes. Histable groaned beneath a weight of gold, too costly for the daily serviceeven of a prince; but he had no pleasure in surveying it. His wines andviands were of the most exquisite description; but he scarcely tastedthem. Yet, what may seem inconsistent, he was averse to all ostentationand show in the eyes of others. He admitted very few into hissociety--no one so intimately as myself. I never once saw more thanthree persons at his table. He seemed, in his taste for furniture, inhis love of literature, and his pursuit after fame, to be, as he himselfsaid, eternally endeavouring to forget and eternally brought back toremembrance.
"I pity that man even more than I admire him," said Vincent to me, onenight when we were walking home from Glanville's house. "His is, indeed,the disease nulla medicabilis herba. Whether it is the past or thepresent that afflicts him--whether it is the memory of past evil, orthe satiety of present good, he has taken to his heart the bitterestphilosophy of life. He does not reject its blessings--he gathers themaround him, but as a stone gathers moss--cold, hard, unsoftened by thefreshness and the greenness which surround it. As a circle can onlytouch a circle in one place, every thing that life presents tohim, wherever it comes from--to whatever portion of his soul it isapplied--can find but one point of contact; and that is the soreness ofaffliction: whether it is the oblivio or the otium that he requires,he finds equally that he is for ever in want of one treasure:--'nequegemmis neque purpura venale nec auro.'"