I am the second son of an English gentleman of large fortune. Our
family is, I believe, one of the most ancient in this country. On my
father's side, it dates back beyond the Conquest; on my mother's, it
is not so old, but the pedigree is nobler. Besides my elder brother, I
have one sister, younger than myself. My mother died shortly after
giving birth to her last child.
Circumstances which will appear hereafter, have forced me to abandon
my father's name. I have been obliged in honour to resign it; and in
honour I abstain from mentioning it here. Accordingly, at the head of
these pages, I have only placed my Christian name--not considering it
of any importance to add the surname which I have assumed; and which I
may, perhaps, be obliged to change for some other, at no very distant
period. It will now, I hope, be understood from the outset, why I
never mention my brother and sister but by their Christian names; why
a blank occurs wherever my father's name should appear; why my own is
kept concealed in this narrative, as it is kept concealed in the
world.
The story of my boyhood and youth has little to interest--nothing that
is new. My education was the education of hundreds of others in my
rank of life. I was first taught at a public school, and then went to
college to complete what is termed "a liberal education."
My life at college has not left me a single pleasant recollection. I
found sycophancy established there, as a principle of action;
flaunting on the lord's gold tassel in the street; enthroned on the
lord's dais in the dining-room. The most learned student in my
college--the man whose life was most exemplary, whose acquirements
were most admirable--was shown me sitting, as a commoner, in the
lowest place. The heir to an Earldom, who had failed at the last
examination, was pointed out a few minutes afterwards, dining in
solitary grandeur at a raised table, above the reverend scholars who
had turned him back as a dunce. I had just arrived at the University,
and had just been congratulated on entering "a venerable seminary of
learning and religion."
Trite and common-place though it be, I mention this circumstance
attending my introduction to college, because it formed the first
cause which tended to diminish my faith in the institution to which I
was attached. I soon grew to regard my university training as a sort
of necessary evil, to be patiently submitted to. I read for no
honours, and joined no particular set of men. I studied the literature
of France, Italy, and Germany; just kept up my classical knowledge
sufficiently to take my degree; and left college with no other
reputation than a reputation for indolence and reserve.
When I returned home, it was thought necessary, as I was a younger
son, and could inherit none of the landed property of the family,
except in the case of my brother's dying without children, that I
should belong to a profession. My father had the patronage of some
valuable "livings," and good interest with more than one member of the
government. The church, the army, the navy, and, in the last instance,
the bar, were offered me to choose from. I selected the last.
My father appeared to be a little astonished at my choice; but he made
no remark on it, except simply telling me not to forget that the bar
was a good stepping-stone to parliament. My real ambition, however,
was, not to make a name in parliament, but a name in literature. I had
already engaged myself in the hard, but glorious service of the pen;
and I was determined to persevere. The profession which offered me the
greatest facilities for pursuing my project, was the profession which
I was ready to prefer. So I chose the bar.
Thus, I entered life under the fairest auspices. Though a younger son,
I knew that my father's wealth, exclusive of his landed property,
secured me an independent income far beyond my wants. I had no
extravagant habits; no tastes that I could not gratify as soon as
formed; no cares or responsibilities of any kind. I might practise my
profession or not, just as I chose. I could devote myself wholly and
unreservedly to literature, knowing that, in my case, the struggle for
fame could never be identical--terribly, though gloriously
identical--with the struggle for bread. For me, the morning sunshine
of life was sunshine without a cloud!
I might attempt, in this place, to sketch my own character as it was
at that time. But what man can say--I will sound the depth of my own
vices, and measure the height of my own virtues; and be as good as his
word? We can neither know nor judge ourselves; others may judge, but
cannot know us: God alone judges and knows too. Let my character
appear--as far as any human character can appear in its integrity, in
this world--in my actions, when I describe the one eventful passage in
my life which forms the basis of this narrative. In the mean time, it
is first necessary that I should say more about the members of my
family. Two of them, at least, will be found important to the progress
of events in these pages. I make no attempt to judge their characters:
I only describe them--whether rightly or wrongly, I know not--as they
appeared to me.