Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was one of those models of perfection of which a human father and mother can produce but a single example,—­Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was therefore an only son.  He was such an amazing favourite with both his parents that they resolved to ruin him; accordingly, he was exceedingly spoiled, never annoyed by the sight of a book, and had as much plum-cake as he could eat.  Happy would it have been for Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy could he always have eaten plum-cake, and remained a child.  “Never,” says the Greek Tragedian, “reckon a mortal happy till you have witnessed his end.”  A most beautiful creature was Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy!  Such eyes—­such hair—­such teeth—­such a figure—­such manners, too,—­and such an irresistible way of tying his neckcloth!  When he was about sixteen, a crabbed old uncle represented to his parents the propriety of teaching Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy to read and write.  Though not without some difficulty, he convinced them,—­for he was exceedingly rich, and riches in an uncle are wonderful arguments respecting the nurture of a nephew whose parents have nothing to leave him.  So our hero was sent to school.  He was naturally (I am not joking now) a very sharp, clever boy; and he came on surprisingly in his learning.  The schoolmaster’s wife liked handsome children.—­“What a genius will Master Ferdinand Fitzroy be, if you take pains with him!” said she, to her husband.

“Pooh, my dear, it is of no use to take pains with him.”

“And why, love?”

“Because he is a great deal too handsome ever to be a scholar.”

“And that’s true enough, my dear!” said the schoolmaster’s wife.

So, because he was too handsome to be a scholar, Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy remained the lag of the fourth form!

They took our hero from school.—­“What profession shall he follow?” said his mother.

“My first cousin is the Lord Chancellor,” said his father, “let him go to the bar.”

The Lord Chancellor dined there that day:  Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was introduced to him; his lordship was a little, rough-faced, beetle-browed, hard-featured man, who thought beauty and idleness the same thing—­and a parchment skin the legitimate complexion for a lawyer.

“Send him to the bar!” said he, “no, no, that will never do!—­Send him into the army; he is much too handsome to become a lawyer.”

“And that’s true enough, my lord!” said the mother.  So they bought Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy a cornetcy in the ——­ regiment of dragoons.

Things are not learned by inspiration.  Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy had never ridden at school, except when he was hoisted; he was, therefore, a very indifferent horseman; they sent him to the riding-school, and everybody laughed at him.

“He is a d—­d ass!” said Cornet Horsephiz, who was very ugly; “a horrid puppy!” said Lieutenant St. Squintem, who was still uglier; “if he does not ride better he will disgrace the regiment,” said Captain Rivalhate, who was very good-looking; “if he does not ride better, we will cut him!” said Colonel Everdrill, who was a wonderful martinet; “I say, Mr. Bumpemwell (to the riding-master,) make that youngster ride less like a miller’s sack.”