In a word, the Duke of
St. James was the most miserable wretch that ever lived.
'Where is this to end?' he asked himself. 'Is this year to close, to
bring only a repetition of the past? Well, I have had it all, and what
is it? My restless feelings are at last laid, my indefinite appetites
are at length exhausted. I have known this mighty world, and where am
I? Once, all prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, the
tremulous and panting lust with which I sighed for it. Have I been
deceived? Have I been disappointed? Is it different from what I
expected? Has it fallen short of my fancy? Has the dexterity of my
musings deserted me? Have I under-acted the hero of my reveries? Have
I, in short, mismanaged my debut? Have I blundered? No, no, no! Far, far
has it gone beyond even my imagination, and _my_ life has, if no other,
realised its ideas!
'Who laughs at me? Who does not burn incense before my shrine? What
appetite have I not gratified? What gratification has proved bitter? My
vanity! Has it been, for an instant, mortified? Am I not acknowledged
the most brilliant hero of the most brilliant society in Europe? Intense
as is my self-love, has it not been gorged? Luxury and splendour were my
youthful dreams, and have I not realised the very romance of indulgence
and magnificence? My career has been one long triumph.
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