The Duke of St.
James sent for Sir Carte Blanche.
Besides entertaining the foreign nobles, the young Duke could no longer
keep off the constantly-recurring idea that something must be done to
entertain himself. He shuddered to think where and what he should have
been been, had not these gentlemen so providentially arrived. As for
again repeating the farce of last year, he felt that it would no longer
raise a smile. Yorkshire he shunned. Doncaster made him tremble. A
week with the Duke of Burlington at Marringworth; a fortnight with the
Fitz-pompeys at Malthorpe; a month with the Graftons at Cleve; and so
on: he shuddered at the very idea. Who can see a pantomime more than
once? Who could survive a pantomime the twentieth time? All the shifting
scenes, and flitting splendour; all the motley crowds of sparkling
characters; all the quick changes, and full variety, are, once,
enchantment. But when the splendour is discovered to be monotony; the
change, order, and the caprice a system; when the characters play ever
the same part, and the variety never varies; how dull, how weary, how
infinitely flat, is such a world to that man who requires from its
converse, not occasional relaxation, but constant excitement!
Pen Bronnock was a new object.
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