“Your definition is perfect,” said Gordon,
“and I am contented to rest on it my excuse
for what my cousin deems insincerity.”
“I suppose that is real life,” said Kenelm,
with his mournful smile.
“Of course it is,” said Mivers.
“Every day I live,” sighed Kenelm, “still
more confirms my conviction that real life is a phantasmal
sham. How absurd it is in philosophers to deny
the existence of apparitions! what apparitions we,
living men, must seem to the ghosts!
“’The
spirits of the wise
Sit in the clouds and mock us.’”
CHILLINGLY GORDON did not fail to confirm his acquaintance
with Kenelm. He very often looked in upon him
of a morning, sometimes joined him in his afternoon
rides, introduced him to men of his own set who were
mostly busy members of Parliament, rising barristers,
or political journalists, but not without a proportion
of brilliant idlers,—club men, sporting
men, men of fashion, rank, and fortune. He did
so with a purpose, for these persons spoke well of
him,—spoke well not only of his talents,
but of his honourable character. His general
nickname amongst them was “HONEST GORDON.”
Kenelm at first thought this sobriquet must be ironical;
not a bit of it. It was given to him on account
of the candour and boldness with which he expressed
opinions embodying that sort of cynicism which is vulgarly
called “the absence of humbug.” The
man was certainly no hypocrite; he affected no beliefs
which he did not entertain. And he had very few
beliefs in anything, except the first half of the adage,
“Every man for himself,—and God for
us all.”
But whatever Chillingly Gordon’s theoretical
disbeliefs in things which make the current creed
of the virtuous, there was nothing in his conduct
which evinced predilection for vices: he was strictly
upright in all his dealings, and in delicate matters
of honour was a favourite umpire amongst his coevals.
Though so frankly ambitious, no one could accuse him
of attempting to climb on the shoulders of patrons.
There was nothing servile in his nature; and, though
he was perfectly prepared to bribe electors if necessary,
no money could have bought himself. His one master-passion
was the desire of power. He sneered at patriotism
as a worn-out prejudice, at philanthropy as a sentimental
catch-word. He did not want to serve his country,
but to rule it. He did not want to raise mankind,
but to rise himself. He was therefore unscrupulous,
unprincipled, as hungerers after power for itself
too often are; yet still if he got power he would probably
use it well, from the clearness and strength of his
mental perceptions. The impression he made on
Kenelm may be seen in the following letter:—
