had I in life? What friends had I on, earth? Whence did I
come? Whither should I go? What should I do?

I wet the pillow, my arms, and my hair, with rushing tears. A dark
interval of most bitter thought followed this burst; but I did not
regret the step taken, nor wish to retract it A strong, vague
persuasion that it was better to go forward than backward, and that I
_could_ go forward--that a way, however narrow and difficult, would in
time open--predominated over other feelings: its influence hushed them
so far, that at last I became sufficiently tranquil to be able to say
my prayers and seek my couch. I had just extinguished my candle and
lain down, when a deep, low, mighty tone swung through the night. At
first I knew it not; but it was uttered twelve times, and at the
twelfth colossal hum and trembling knell, I said: "I lie in the shadow
of St. Paul's."

CHAPTER VI.

LONDON.

The next day was the first of March, and when I awoke, rose, and opened
my curtain, I saw the risen sun struggling through fog. Above my head,
above the house-tops, co-elevate almost with the clouds, I saw a
solemn, orbed mass, dark blue and dim--THE DOME. While I looked, my
inner self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose;
I had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at last
about to taste life. In that morning my soul grew as fast as Jonah's
gourd.

"I did well to come," I said, proceeding to dress with speed and care.
"I like the spirit of this great London which I feel around me. Who but
a coward would pass his whole life in hamlets; and for ever abandon his
faculties to the eating rust of obscurity?"

Being dressed, I went down; not travel-worn and exhausted, but tidy and
refreshed. When the waiter came in with my breakfast, I managed to
accost him sedately, yet cheerfully; we had ten minutes' discourse, in
the course of which we became usefully known to each other.

He was a grey-haired, elderly man; and, it seemed, had lived in his
present place twenty years. Having ascertained this, I was sure he must
remember my two uncles, Charles and Wilmot, who, fifteen, years ago,
were frequent visitors here. I mentioned their names; he recalled them
perfectly, and with respect. Having intimated my connection, my
position in his eyes was henceforth clear, and on a right footing. He
said I was like my uncle Charles: I suppose he spoke truth, because
Mrs. Barrett was accustomed to say the sa