Fauntleroy

Five-and-twenty years ago, at the epoch of this story, there dwelt in
one of the Middle States a man whom we shall call Fauntleroy; a man of
wealth, and magnificent tastes, and prodigal expenditure. His home
might almost be styled a palace; his habits, in the ordinary sense,
princely. His whole being seemed to have crystallized itself into an
external splendor, wherewith he glittered in the eyes of the world, and
had no other life than upon this gaudy surface. He had married a
lovely woman, whose nature was deeper than his own.

But his affection
for her, though it showed largely, was superficial, like all his other
manifestations and developments; he did not so truly keep this noble
creature in his heart, as wear her beauty for the most brilliant
ornament of his outward state. And there was born to him a child, a
beautiful daughter, whom he took from the beneficent hand of God with
no just sense of her immortal value, but as a man already rich in gems
would receive another jewel. If he loved her, it was because she shone.

After Fauntleroy had thus spent a few empty years, coruscating
continually an unnatural light, the source of it--which was merely his
gold--began to grow more shallow, and finally became exhausted. He saw
himself in imminent peril of losing all that had heretofore
distinguished him; and, conscious of no innate worth to fall back upon,
he recoiled from this calamity with the instinct of a soul shrinking
from annihilation.