Basil | Page 4

rocks; children are playing round the
boats drawn up on the beach; the sea-breeze blows fresh and pure
towards the shore----all objects are brilliant to look on, all sounds are
pleasant to hear, as my pen traces the first lines which open the story of
my life.
II.
I am the second son of an English gentleman of large fortune. Our
family is, I believe, one of the most ancient in this country. On my
father's side, it dates back beyond the Conquest; on my mother's, it is
not so old, but the pedigree is nobler. Besides my elder brother, I have
one sister, younger than myself. My mother died shortly after giving
birth to her last child.
Circumstances which will appear hereafter, have forced me to abandon
my father's name. I have been obliged in honour to resign it; and in
honour I abstain from mentioning it here. Accordingly, at the head of
these pages, I have only placed my Christian name--not considering it
of any importance to add the surname which I have assumed; and
which I may, perhaps, be obliged to change for some other, at no very
distant period. It will now, I hope, be understood from the outset, why I
never mention my brother and sister but by their Christian names; why
a blank occurs wherever my father's name should appear; why my own
is kept concealed in this narrative, as it is kept concealed in the world.

The story of my boyhood and youth has little to interest--nothing that is
new. My education was the education of hundreds of others in my rank
of life. I was first taught at a public school, and then went to college to
complete what is termed "a liberal education."
My life at college has not left me a single pleasant recollection. I found
sycophancy established there, as a principle of action; flaunting on the
lord's gold tassel in the street; enthroned on the lord's dais in the
dining-room. The most learned student in my college--the man whose
life was most exemplary, whose acquirements were most
admirable--was shown me sitting, as a commoner, in the lowest place.
The heir to an Earldom, who had failed at the last examination, was
pointed out a few minutes afterwards, dining in solitary grandeur at a
raised table, above the reverend scholars who had turned him back as a
dunce. I had just arrived at the University, and had just been
congratulated on entering "a venerable seminary of learning and
religion."
Trite and common-place though it be, I mention this circumstance
attending my introduction to college, because it formed the first cause
which tended to diminish my faith in the institution to which I was
attached. I soon grew to regard my university training as a sort of
necessary evil, to be patiently submitted to. I read for no honours, and
joined no particular set of men. I studied the literature of France, Italy,
and Germany; just kept up my classical knowledge sufficiently to take
my degree; and left college with no other reputation than a reputation
for indolence and reserve.
When I returned home, it was thought necessary, as I was a younger
son, and could inherit none of the landed property of the family, except
in the case of my brother's dying without children, that I should belong
to a profession. My father had the patronage of some valuable
"livings," and good interest with more than one member of the
government. The church, the army, the navy, and, in the last instance,
the bar, were offered me to choose from. I selected the last.
My father appeared to be a little astonished at my choice; but he made
no remark on it, except simply telling me not to forget that the bar was

a good stepping-stone to parliament. My real ambition, however, was,
not to make a name in parliament, but a name in literature. I had
already engaged myself in the hard, but glorious service of the pen; and
I was determined to persevere. The profession which offered me the
greatest facilities for pursuing my project, was the profession which I
was ready to prefer. So I chose the bar.
Thus, I entered life under the fairest auspices. Though a younger son, I
knew that my father's wealth, exclusive of his landed property, secured
me an independent income far beyond my wants. I had no extravagant
habits; no tastes that I could not gratify as soon as formed; no cares or
responsibilities of any kind. I might practise my profession or not, just
as I chose. I could devote myself wholly and unreservedly to literature,
knowing that, in my case, the struggle for fame could never be
identical--terribly, though gloriously identical--with the struggle for
bread. For me, the morning sunshine of