festivity of Pen Bron-nock. But while thousands were envying his lot,
and hundreds aspiring to share it, what indeed was the condition of our
hero?

A month or two had rolled on and if he had not absolutely tasted
enjoyment, at least he had thrown off reflection; but as the autumn wore
away, and as each day he derived less diversion or distraction from the
repetition of the same routine, carried on by different actors, he
could no longer control feelings which would be predominant, and those
feelings were not such as perhaps might have been expected from one who
was receiving the homage of an admiring world. 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. My palaces, and
my gardens, and my jewels, my dress, my furniture, my equipages, my
horses, and my festivals, these used to occupy my meditations, when I
could only meditate; and have my determinations proved a delusion? Ask
the admiring world.

'And now for the great point to which all this was to tend, which all
this was to fascinate and subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight,
to honour. Woman! Oh! when I first dared, among the fields of Eton,
to dwell upon the soft yet agitating fan