I returned to England. I entered again upon the theatre of its world;
but I mixed now more in its greater than its lesser pursuits. I looked
rather at the mass than the leaven of mankind; and while I felt aversion
for the few whom I knew, I glowed with philanthropy for the crowd which I
knew not.
It is in contemplating men at a distance that we become benevolent. When
we mix with them, we suffer by the contact, and grow, if not malicious
from the injury, at least selfish from the circumspection which our
safety imposes but when, while we feel our relationship, we are not
galled by the tie; when neither jealousy, nor envy, nor resentment are
excited, we have nothing to interfere with those more complacent and
kindliest sentiments which our earliest impressions have rendered natural
to our hearts. We may fly men in hatred because they have galled us, but
the feeling ceases with the cause: none will willingly feed long upon
bitter thoughts. It is thus that, while in the narrow circle in which we
move we suffer daily from those who approach us, we can, in spite of our
resentment to them, glow with a general benevolence to the wider
relations from which we are remote; that while smarting beneath the
treachery of friendship, the stinging of ingratitude, the faithfulness of
love, we would almost sacrifice our lives to realise some idolised theory
of legislation; and that, distrustful, calculating, selfish in private,
there are thousands who would, with a credulous fanaticism, fling
themselves as victims before that unrecompensing Moloch which they term
the Public.
Living, then, much by myself, but reflecting much upon the world, I
learned to love mankind. Philanthropy brought ambition; for I was
ambitious, not for my own aggrandisement, but for the service of others--
for the poor--the toiling--the degraded; these constituted that part of
my fellow-beings which I the most loved, for these were bound to me by
the most engaging of all human ties--misfortune! I began to enter into
the intrigues of the state; I extended my observation and inquiry from
individuals to nations; I examined into the mysteries of the science
which has arisen in these later days to give the lie to the wisdom of the
past, to reduce into the simplicity of problems the intricacies of
political knowledge, to teach us the fallacy of the system which had
governed by restriction, and imagined that the happiness of nations
depended upon the perpetual interference of its rulers, and to prove
to us that the only unerring policy of art is to leave a free and
unobstructed progress to the hidden energies and province of Nature.
But it was not only the theoretical investigation of the state which
employed me. I mixed, though in secret, with the agents of its springs.
While I seemed only intent upon pleasure, I locked in my heart the
consciousness and vanity of power. In the levity of the lip I disguised
the workings and the knowledge of the brain; and I looked, as with a
gifted eye, upon the mysteries of the hidden depths, while I seemed to
float an idler, with the herd, only on the surface of the stream.
Why was I disgusted, when I had but to put forth my hand and grasp
whatever object my ambition might desire? Alas! there was in my heart
always something too soft for the aims and cravings of my mind. I felt
that I was wasting the young years of my life in a barren and wearisome
pursuit. What to me, who had outlived vanity, would have been the
admiration of the crowd! I sighed for the sympathy of the one! and I
shrunk in sadness from the prospect of renown to ask my heart for the
reality of love! For what purpose, too, had I devoted myself to the
service of men? As I grew more sensible of the labour of pursuing, I saw
more of the inutility of accomplishing, individual measures. There is
one great and moving order of events which we may retard, but we cannot
arrest, and to which, if we endeavour to hasten them, we only give a
dangerous and unnatural impetus. Often, when in the fever of the
midnight, I have paused from my unshared and unsoftened studies, to
listen to the deadly pulsation of my heart,--[Falkland suffered much,
from very early youth, from a complaint in his heart]--when I have felt
in its painful and tumultuous beating the very life waning and wasting
within me, I have sickened to my inmost soul to remember that, amongst
all those whom I was exhausting the health and enjoyment of youth to
benefit, there was not one for whom my life had an interest, or by whom
my death would be honoured by a tear. There is a beautiful passage in
Chalmers on the want of sympathy we experience in the world. From my
earliest childhood I had one deep, engrossing, yearning desire,--and that
was to love and to be loved. I found, too young, the realisation of that
dream--it passed! and I have never known it again. The experience of
long and bitter years teaches me to look with suspicion on that far
recollection of the past, and to doubt if this earth could indeed produce
a living form to satisfy the visions of one who has dwelt among the
boyish creations of fancy--who has shaped out in his heart an imaginary
idol, arrayed it in whatever is most beautiful in nature, and breathed
into the image the pure but burning spirit of that innate love from which
it sprung! It is true that my manhood has been the undeceiver of my
youth, and that the meditation upon the facts has disenthralled me from
the visionary broodings over fiction; but what remuneration have I found
in reality? If the line of the satirist be not true, "Souvent de tous
nos maux la raison est le pire," [Boileau]--at least, like the madman of
whom he speaks, I owe but little gratitude to the act which, "in drawing
me from my error, has robbed me also of a paradise."
I am approaching the conclusion of my confessions. Men who have no ties
in the world, and who have been accustomed to solitude, find, with every
disappointment in the former, a greater yearning for the enjoyments which
the latter can afford. Day by day I relapsed more into myself; "man
delighted me not, nor women either." In my ambition, it was not in the
means, but the end, that I was disappointed. In my friends, I complained
not of treachery, but insipidity; and it was not because I was deserted,
but wearied by more tender connections, that I ceased to find either
excitement in seeking, or triumph in obtaining, their love. It was not,
then, in a momentary disgust, but rather in the calm of satiety, that I
formed that resolution of retirement which I have adopted now.
Shrinking from my kind, but too young to live wholly for myself, I have
made a new tie with nature; I have come to cement it here. I am like a
bird which has wandered, afar, but has returned home to its nest at last.
But there is one feeling which had its origin in the world, and which
accompanies me still; which consecrates my recollections of the past;
which contributes to take its gloom from the solitude of the present:-Do
you ask me its nature, Monkton? It is my friendship for you.