s not so
much of Mantua or Augustus, but of English places and the student's own
irrevocable youth.

Robert Herrick was the son of an intelligent, active, and ambitious man,
small partner in a considerable London house. Hopes were conceived
of the boy; he was sent to a good school, gained there an Oxford
scholarship, and proceeded in course to the Western University. With all
his talent and taste (and he had much of both) Robert was deficient
in consistency and intellectual manhood, wandered in bypaths of study,
worked at music or at metaphysics when he should have been at Greek, and
took at last a paltry degree. Almost at the same time, the London house
was disastrously wound up; Mr Herrick must begin the world again as
a clerk in a strange office, and Robert relinquish his ambitions and
accept with gratitude a career that he detested and despised. He had
no head for figures, no interest in affairs, detested the constraint of
hours, and despised the aims and the success of merchants. To grow rich
was none of his ambitions; rather to do well. A worse or a more bold
young man would have refused the destiny; perhaps tried his future with
his pen; perhaps enlisted. Robert, more prudent, possibly more timid,
consented to embrace that way of life in which he could most readily
assist his family. But he did so with a mind divided; fled the
neighbourhood of former comrades; and chose, out of several positions
placed at his disposal, a clerkship in New York.

His career thenceforth was one of unbroken shame. He did not drink,
he was exactly honest, he was never rude to his employers, yet was
everywhere discharged. Bringing no interest to his duties, he brought
no attention; his day was a tissue of things neglected and things done
amiss; and from place to place and from town to town, he carried the
character of one thoroughly incompetent. No man can bear the word
applied to him without some flush of colour, as indeed there is
none other that so emphatically slams in a man's face the door
of self-respect. And to Herrick, who was conscious of talents and
acquirements, who looked down upon those humble duties in which he was
found wanting, the pain was the more exquisite. Early in his fall, he
had ceased to be able to make remittances; shortly after, having nothing
but failure to communicate, he ceased writing home; and about a year
before this tale begins, turned suddenly upon the streets of San
Francisco by a vulgar and infuria