Devereux — CompleteLytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
History
Devereux — Complete
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Great Britain -- History -- Anne, 1702-1714 -- Fiction
With my brother Gerald, I had a deadly and irreconcilable feud. He was
much stouter, taller, and stronger than myself; and, far from conceding
to me that respect which I imagined my priority of birth entitled me
to claim, he took every opportunity to deride my pretensions, and
to vindicate the cause of the superior strength and vigour which
constituted his own. It would have done your heart good to have seen us
cuff one another, we did it with such zeal. There is nothing in human
passion like a good brotherly hatred! My mother said, with the most
feeling earnestness, that she used to feel us fighting even before our
birth: we certainly lost no time directly after it. Both my parents were
secretly vexed that I had come into the world an hour sooner than my
brother; and Gerald himself looked upon it as a sort of juggle,--a kind
of jockeyship by which he had lost the prerogative of birthright. This
very early rankled in his heart, and he was so much a greater favourite
than myself that, instead of rooting out so unfortunate a feeling on his
part, my good parents made no scruple of openly lamenting my seniority.
I believe the real cause of our being taken from the domestic
instructions of the Abbe (who was an admirable teacher) and sent to
school, was solely to prevent my uncle deciding everything in my favour.
Montreuil, however, accompanied us to our academy, and remained with
us during the three years in which we were perfecting ourselves in the
blessings of education.
At the end of the second year, a prize was instituted for the best
proficient at a very severe examination; two months before it took place
we went home for a few days. After dinner my uncle asked me to walk with
him in the park. I did so: we strolled along to the margin of a rivulet
which ornamented the grounds. There my uncle, for the first time, broke
silence.
“Morton,” said he, looking down at his left leg, “Morton, let me see;
thou art now of a reasonable age,--fourteen at the least.”
“Fifteen, if it please you, sir,” said I, elevating my stature as much
as I was able.
“Humph! my boy; and a pretty time of life it is, too. Your brother
Gerald is taller than you by two inches.”
“But I can beat him for all that, uncle,” said I, colouring, and
clenching my fist.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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