I know no task more arduous than a just delineation of the character of
Ormond. To scrutinize and ascertain our own principles is abundantly
difficult. To exhibit these principles to the world with absolute
sincerity can hardly be expected. We are prompted to conceal and to
feign by a thousand motives; but truly to portray the motives, and
relate the actions of another, appears utterly impossible. The attempt,
however, if made with fidelity and diligence, is not without its use.
To comprehend the whole truth with regard to the character and conduct
of another, may be denied to any human being, but different observers
will have, in their pictures, a greater or less portion of this truth.
No representation will be wholly false, and some, though not perfectly,
may yet be considerably exempt from error.
Ormond was of all mankind the being most difficult and most deserving to
be studied. A fortunate concurrence of incidents has unveiled his
actions to me with more distinctness than to any other. My knowledge is
far from being absolute, but I am conscious of a kind of duty, first to
my friend, and secondly to mankind, to impart the knowledge I possess.
I shall omit to mention the means by which I became acquainted with his
character, nor shall I enter, at this time, into every part of it. His
political projects are likely to possess an extensive influence on the
future condition of this western world. I do not conceive myself
authorized to communicate a knowledge of his schemes, which I gained, in
some sort, surreptitiously, or at least, by means of which he was not
apprised. I shall merely explain the maxims by which he was accustomed
to regulate his private deportment.
No one could entertain loftier conceptions of human capacity than
Ormond, but he carefully distinguished between men in the abstract, and
men as they are. The former were beings to be impelled, by the breath of
accident, in a right or a wrong road, but whatever direction they should
receive, it was the property of their nature to persist in it. Now this
impulse had been given. No single being could rectify the error. It was
the business of the wise man to form a just estimate of things, but not
to attempt, by individual efforts, so chimerical an enterprise as that
of promoting the happiness of mankind. Their condition was out of the
reach of a member of a corrupt society to control. A mortal poison
pervaded the whole system, by means of which every thing received was
converted into bane and purulence. Efforts designed to ameliorate the
condition of an individual were sure of answering a contrary purpose.
The principles of the social machine must be rectified, before men can
be beneficially active. Our motives may be neutral or beneficent, but
our actions tend merely to the production of evil.
The idea of total forbearance was not less delusive. Man could not be
otherwise than a cause of perpetual operation and efficacy. He was part
of a machine, and as such had not power to withhold his agency.
Contiguousness to other parts, that is, to other men, was all that was
necessary to render him a powerful concurrent. What then was the conduct
incumbent on him? Whether he went forward, or stood still, whether his
motives were malignant, or kind, or indifferent, the mass of evil was
equally and necessarily augmented. It did not follow from these
preliminaries that virtue and duty were terms without a meaning, but
they require us to promote our own happiness and not the happiness of
others. Not because the former end is intrinsically preferable, not
because the happiness of others is unworthy of primary consideration,
but because it is not to be attained. Our power in the present state of
things is subjected to certain limits. A man may reasonably hope to
accomplish his end when he proposes nothing but his own good: any other
point is inaccessible.
He must not part with benevolent desire: this is a constituent of
happiness. He sees the value of general and particular felicity; he
sometimes paints it to his fancy, but if this be rarely done, it is in
consequence of virtuous sensibility, which is afflicted on observing
that his pictures are reversed in the real state of mankind. A wise man
will relinquish the pursuit of general benefit, but not the desire of
that benefit, or the perception of that in which this benefit consists,
because these are among the ingredients of virtue and the sources of
his happiness.
Principles, in the looser sense of that term, have little influence on
practice. Ormond was, for the most part, governed, like others, by the
influences of education and present circumstances. It required a
vigilant discernment to distinguish whether the stream of his actions
flowed from one or the other. His income was large, and he managed it
nearly on the same principles as other men. He thought himself entitled
to all the splendour and ease which it would purchase, but his taste was
elaborate and correct. He gratified his love of the beautiful, because
the sensations it afforded were pleasing, but made no sacrifices to the
love of distinction. He gave no expensive entertainments for the sake of
exciting the admiration of stupid gazers, or the flattery or envy of
those who shared them. Pompous equipage and retinue were modes of
appropriating the esteem of mankind which he held in profound contempt.
The garb of his attendants was fashioned after the model suggested by
his imagination, and not in compliance with the dictates of custom.
He treated with systematic negligence the etiquette that regulates the
intercourse of persons of a certain class. He every where acted, in this
respect, as if he were alone, or among familiar associates. The very
appellations of Sir, and Madam, and Mister, were, in his apprehension,
servile and ridiculous, and as custom or law had annexed no penalty to
the neglect of these, he conformed to his own opinions. It was easier
for him to reduce his notions of equality to practice than for most
others. To level himself with others was an act of condescension and not
of arrogance. It was of requisite to descend rather than to risk,--a
task the most easy, if we regard the obstacle flowing from the prejudice
of mankind, but far most difficult if the motive of the agent be
considered.
That in which he chiefly placed his boast, was his sincerity. To this he
refused no sacrifice. In consequence of this, his deportment was
disgusting to weak minds, by a certain air of ferocity and haughty
negligence. He was without the attractions of candour, because he
regarded not the happiness of others, but in subservience to his
sincerity. Hence it was natural to suppose that the character of this
man was easily understood. He affected to conceal nothing. No one
appeared more exempt from the instigations of vanity. He set light by
the good opinions of others, had no compassion for their prejudices and
hazarded assertions in their presence which he knew would be, in the
highest degree, shocking to their previous notions. They might take it,
he would say, as they list. Such were his conceptions, and the last
thing he would give up was the use of his tongue. It was his way to give
utterance to the suggestions of his understanding. If they were
disadvantageous to him, the opinions of others, it was well. He did not
want to be regarded in any light but the true one. He was contented to
be rated by the world at his just value. If they esteemed him for
qualities which he did not possess, was he wrong in rectifying their
mistake: but in reality, if they valued him for that to which he had no
claim, and which he himself considered as contemptible, he must
naturally desire to show them their error, and forfeit that praise
which, in his own opinion, was a badge of infamy.
In listening to his discourse, no one's claim to sincerity appeared less
questionable. A somewhat different conclusion would be suggested by a
survey of his actions. In early youth he discovered in himself a
remarkable facility in imitating the voice and gestures of others. His
memory was eloquently retentive, and these qualities would have rendered
his career, in the theatrical profession, illustrious, had not his
condition raised him above it. His talents were occasionally exerted for
the entertainment of convivial parties and private circles, but he
gradually withdrew from such scenes as he advanced in age, and devoted
his abilities to higher purposes.
His aversion to duplicity had flowed from experience of its evils. He
had frequently been made its victim; inconsequence of this his temper
had become suspicious, and he was apt to impute deceit on occasions when
others, of no inconsiderable sagacity, were abundantly disposed to
confidence. One transaction had occurred in his life, in which the
consequences of being misled by false appearances were of the utmost
moment to his honour and safety. The usual mode of salving his doubt he
deeded insufficient, and the eagerness of his curiosity tempted him,
for, the first time, to employ, for this end, his talent at imitation.
He therefore assumed a borrowed character and guise, and performed his
part with so much skill as fully to accomplish life design. He whose
mask would have secured him from all other attempts, was thus taken
through an avenue which his caution had overlooked, and the hypocrisy of
his pretensions unquestionably ascertained.
Perhaps, in a comprehensive view, the success of this expedient was
unfortunate. It served to recommend this method of encountering deceit,
and informed him of the extent of those powers which are so liable to be
abused. A subtlety much inferior to Ormond would suffice to recommend
this mode of action. It was defensible on no other principle than
necessity. The treachery of mankind compelled him to resort to it. If
they should deal in a manner as upright and explicit as himself, it
would be superfluous. But since they were in the perpetual use of
stratagems and artifices, it was allowable, he thought, to wield the
same arms.
It was easy to perceive, however, that this practice was recommended to
him by other considerations. He was delighted with the power it
conferred. It enabled him to gain access, as if by supernatural means,
to the privacy of others, and baffle their profoundest contrivances to
hide themselves from his view. It flattered him with the possession of
something like omniscience. It was besides an art, in which, as in
others, every accession of skill was a source of new gratification.
Compared with this, the performance of the actor is the sport of
children. This profession he was accustomed to treat with merciless
ridicule, and no doubt some of his contempt arose from a secret
comparison between the theatrical species of imitation and his own. He
blended in his own person the functions of poet and actor, and his
dramas were not fictitious but real. The end that he proposed was not
the amusement of a playhouse mob. His were scenes in which hope and fear
exercised a genuine influence, and in which was maintained that
resemblance to truth so audaciously and grossly violated on the stage.
It is obvious how many singular conjunctures must have grown out of this
propensity. A mind of uncommon energy like Ormond's, which had occupied
a wide sphere of action, and which could not fail of confederating its
efforts with those of minds like itself, must have given birth to
innumerable incidents, not unworthy to be exhibited by the most eloquent
historian. It is not my business to relate any of these. The fate of
Miss Dudley is intimately connected with him. What influence he obtained
over her destiny, in consequence of this dexterity, will appear in the
sequel.
It arose from these circumstances, that no one was more impenetrable
than Ormond, though no one's real character seemed more easily
discerned. The projects that occupied his attention were diffused over
an ample space; and his instruments and coadjutors were culled from a
field, whose bounds were those of the civilized world. To the vulgar
eye, therefore, he appeared a man of speculation and seclusion, and was
equally inscrutable in his real and assumed characters. In his real, his
intents were too lofty and comprehensive, as well as too assiduously
shrouded from profane inspection for them to scan. In the latter,
appearances were merely calculated to mislead and not to enlighten.
In his youth he had been guilty of the usual excesses incident to his
age and character. These had disappeared and yielded place to a more
regular and circumspect system of action. In the choice of his pleasures
he still exposed himself to the censure of the world. Yet there was more
of grossness and licentiousness in the expression of his tenets, than
in the tenets themselves. So far as temporance regards the maintenance
of health, no man adhered to its precepts with more fidelity, but he
esteemed some species of connection with the other sex as venial, which
mankind in general are vehement in condemning.
In his intercourse with women he deemed himself superior to the
allurements of what is called love. His inferences were drawn from a
consideration of the physical propensities of a human being. In his
scale of enjoyments the gratifications which belonged to these were
placed at the bottom. Yet he did not entirely disdain them, and when
they could be purchased without the sacrifice of superior advantages,
they were sufficiently acceptable.
His mistake on this head was the result of his ignorance. He had not
hitherto met with a female worthy of his confidence. Their views were
limited and superficial, or their understandings were betrayed by the
tenderness of their hearts. He found in them no intellectual energy, no
superiority to what he accounted vulgar prejudice, and no affinity with
the sentiments which he cherished with most devotion. Their presence had
been capable of exciting no emotion which he did not quickly discover to
be vague and sensual; and the uniformity of his experience at length
instilled into him a belief, that the intellectual constitution of
females was essentially defective. He denied the reality of that passion
which claimed a similitude or sympathy of minds as one of its
ingredients.