But he had exerted them ineffectually; and, as is not unusual, found,
after much harrowing anxiety and deep suffering, that he was not even
recompensed for his exertions and his sympathy by the gratitude of his
brother. The younger Dacre was not one of those minds whose rashness and
impetuosity are counterbalanced, or rather compensated, by a generous
candour and an amiable remorse. He was headstrong, but he was obstinate:
he was ardent, but he was sullen: he was unwary, but he was suspicious.
Everyone who opposed him was his enemy: all who combined for his
preservation were conspirators. His father, whose feelings he had
outraged and never attempted to soothe, was a tyrant; his brother, who
was devoted to his interests, was a traitor.
These were his living and his dying thoughts. While he existed, he was
one of those men who, because they have been imprudent, think themselves
unfortunate, and mistake their diseased mind for an implacable destiny.
When he died, his deathbed was consoled by the reflection that his
persecutors might at last feel some compunction; and he quitted the
world without a pang, because he flattered himself that his departure
would cost them one.
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