But if “castle-building” be so pleasurable when a mere visionary scheme, what is it when it comes associated with all the necessary conditions for accomplishment,—when not alone the plan and elevation of the edifice are there, but all the materials and every appliance to realize the conception?
Just fancy yourself “two or three and twenty,” waking out of a sound and dreamless sleep, to see the mellow sun of an autumnal morning straining its rays through the curtains of your bedroom. Conceive the short and easy struggle by which, banishing all load of cares and duties in which you were once immersed, you spring, as by a bound, to the joyous fact that you are the owner of a princely fortune, with health and ardent spirit, a temper capable of, nay, eager for engagement, a fearless courage, and a heart unchilled. Think of this, and say, Is not the first waking half-hour of such thoughts the brightest spot of a whole existence? Such was the frame of mind in which our hero awoke, and lay for some time to revel in! We could not, if we would, follow the complex tissue of day-dreams that wandered over every clime, and in the luxuriant rapture of power created scenes of pleasure, of ingredients the most far-fetched and remote. The “actual” demands our attention more urgently than the “ideal,” so that we are constrained to follow the unpoetical steps of so ignoble a personage as Mr. Phillis,—Cashel's new valet,—who now broke in upon his master's reveries as he entered with hot water and the morning papers.
“What have you got there?” cried Cashel, not altogether pleased at the intrusion.
“The morning papers! Lord Ettlecombe “—his former master, and his universal type—“always read the 'Post,' sir, before he got out of bed.”
“Well, let me see it,” said Cashel, who, already impressed with the necessity of conforming to a new code, was satisfied to take the law even from so humble an authority as his own man.
“Yes, sir. Our arrival is announced very handsomely among the fashionable intelligence, and the 'Dublin Mail' has copied the paragraph stating that we are speedily about to visit our Irish estates.”
“Ah, indeed,” said Cashel, somewhat flattered at his newborn notoriety; “where is all this?”
“Here, sir, under 'Movements in High Life': 'The Duke of Uxoter to Lord Debbington's beautiful villa at Maulish; Sir Harry and Lady Emeline Morpas, etc.; Rosenorris; Lord Fetcherton—'No, here we have it, sir,—'Mr. Roland Cashel and suite'—Kennyfeck and self, sir—'from Mivart's, for Ireland. We understand that this millionnaire proprietor is now about to visit his estates in this country, preparatory to taking up a residence finally amongst us. If report speak truly, he is as accomplished as wealthy, and will be a very welcome accession to the ranks of our country gentry.'”
“How strange that these worthy people should affect to know or care anything about me or my future intentions,” said Cashel, innocently.
“Oh, sir, they really know nothing,—that little thing is mine.”