From this period might be dated an opinion of Francis’s, which never afterwards left him; he fancied he was doing injustice to another, and that other, a brother whom he ardently loved, by continuing to exist.  Had he met with fondness in his parents, or sociability in his playfellows, these fancies would have left him as he grew into life.  But the affections of his parents were settled on his more promising brother; and his manners daily increasing in their repulsive traits, drove his companions to the society of others, more agreeable to their own buoyancy and joy.

Had Francis Denbigh, at this age, met with a guardian clear-sighted enough to fathom his real character, and competent to direct his onward course, he would yet have become an ornament to his name and country, and a useful member of society.  But no such guide existed.  His natural guardians, in his particular case, were his worst enemies; and the boys left school for college four years afterwards, each advanced in his respective properties of attraction and repulsion.

Irreligion is hardly a worse evil in a family than favoritism.  When once allowed to exist, in the breast of the parent, though hid apparently from all other eyes, its sad consequences begin to show themselves.  Effects are produced, and we look in vain for the cause.  The awakened sympathies of reciprocal caresses and fondness are mistaken for uncommon feelings, and the forbidding aspect of deadened affections is miscalled native sensibility.

In this manner the evil increases itself, until manners are formed, and characters created, that must descend with their possessor to the tomb.

In the peculiar formation of the mind of Francis Denbigh, the evil was doubly injurious.  His feelings required sympathy and softness, and they met only with coldness and disgust.  George alone was an exception to the rule. He did love his brother; but even his gaiety and spirits finally tired of the dull uniformity of the diseased habits of his senior.

The only refuge Francis found in his solitude, amidst the hundreds of the university, was in his muse and in the powers of melody.  The voice of his family has been frequently mentioned in these pages; and if, as Lady Laura had intimated, there had ever been a siren in the race, it was a male one.  He wrote prettily, and would sing these efforts of his muse to music of his own, drawing crowds around his windows, in the stillness of the night, to listen to sounds as melodious as they were mournful.  His poetical efforts partook of the distinctive character of the man, being melancholy, wild, and sometimes pious.

George was always amongst the most admiring of his brother’s auditors, and would feel a yearning of his heart towards him, at such moments, that was painful.  But George was too young and too heedless, to supply the place of a monitor, or to draw his thoughts into a more salutary train.  This was the duty of his parents, and should have been their task.  But the world, his rising honors, and his professional engagements, occupied the time of the father; and fashion, parties, and pleasure, killed the time of his mother.  When they did think of their children, it was of George; the painful image of Francis being seldom admitted to disturb their serenity.