f India, boar
through the forests of Austria, pigs over the plains of Massachusetts.
From the Castle of Abergeldie he has led his Princess into the frosty
night, Highlanders lighting with torches the path to the deer-larder,
where lay the wild things that had fallen to him on the crags. He has
marched the Grenadiers to chapel through the white streets of Windsor.
He has ridden through Moscow, in strange apparel, to kiss the catafalque
of more than one Tzar. For him the Rajahs of India have spoiled their
temples, and Blondin has crossed Niagara along the tight-rope, and the
Giant Guard done drill beneath the chandeliers of the Neue Schloss.
Incline he to scandal, lawyers are proud to whisper their secrets in
his ear. Be he gallant, the ladies are at his feet. Ennuye, all the wits
from Bernal Osborne to Arthur Roberts have jested for him. He has been
'present always at the focus where the greatest number of forces unite
in their purest energy,' for it is his presence that makes those forces
unite.

'Ennuye?' I asked. Indeed he never is. How could he be when Pleasure
hangs constantly upon his arm! It is those others, overtaking her only
after arduous chase, breathless and footsore, who quickly sicken of her
company, and fall fainting at her feet. And for me, shod neither with
rank nor riches, what folly to join the chase! I began to see how small
a thing it were to sacrifice those external 'experiences,' so dear to
the heart of Pater, by a rigid, complex civilisation made so hard to
gain. They gave nothing but lassitude to those who had gained them
through suffering. Even to the kings and princes, who so easily gained
them, what did they yield besides themselves? I do not suppose that, if
we were invited to give authenticated instances of intelligence on the
part of our royal pets, we could fill half a column of the Spectator. In
fact, their lives are so full they have no time for thought, the highest
energy of man. Now, it was to thought that my life should be dedicated.
Action, apart from its absorption of time, would war otherwise against
the pleasures of intellect, which, for me, meant mainly the pleasures
of imagination. It is only (this is a platitude) the things one has not
done, the faces or places one has not seen, or seen but darkly, that
have charm. It is only mystery--such mystery as besets the eyes of
children--that makes things superb. I thought of the voluptuaries I
had known--they seemed so sad, so ascetic