"He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never read. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done a day's work in his life. He could lie in bed. He could eat and drink. He could smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse himself with women,—the lower the culture of the women, the better the amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him."
The complacent fool would be matter for pure mirth if
he could live for himself alone; but unfortunately his
worthless existence is as adequate as any for the promotion
of disaster to others. Sir Felix is comparatively harmless,
for his wreckage is reparable, but Algernon is made a deus
ex machina, and lets his commission go by default. Those
who trusted him learn that "He that sendeth a message by
the hand of a fool cutteth off his own feet, and drinketh
in damage." Or, as his own author says:[1]
"But, if it is permitted to the fool to create entanglements
and set calamity in motion, to arrest its course is the last thing
the Gods allow of his doing."
He is, however, a fool of quality in that he has a philosophy
of life, and if he were pent up in his room, he could
mitigate tedium by reverie. One may indulge in anticipations
without possessing the faculty of foresight. His
cousin "aspired to become Attorney-General of these
realms," but he had other views:[2]
"Civilization had tried him and found him wanting; so he condemned
it. Moreover, sitting now all day at a desk, he was civilization's
drudge. No wonder, then, that his dream was of
prairies, and primeval forests, and Australian wilds. He believed
in his heart that he would be a man new made over there,
