gness of common men."

He paused at the casement--he threw it open, and leant forth and gasped
for air. Heaven was serene and still, as morning came coldly forth
amongst the waning stars; and the haunts of men, in their thoroughfare
of idleness and of pleasure, were desolate and void. Nothing, save
Nature, was awake.

"And if, O stars!" murmured Maltravers, from the depth of his excited
heart--"if I have been insensible to your solemn beauty--if the Heaven
and the Earth had been to me but as air and clay--if I were one of a
dull and dim-eyed herd--I might live on, and drop into the grave from
the ripeness of unprofitable years. It is because I yearn for the great
objects of an immortal being, that life shrinks and shrivels up like a
scroll. Away! I will not listen to these human and material monitors,
and consider life as a thing greater than the things that I would live
for. My choice is made, glory is more persuasive than the grave."

He turned impatiently from the casement--his eyes flashed--his chest
heaved--he trod the chamber with a monarch's air. All the calculations
of prudence, all the tame and methodical reasonings with which, from
time to time, he had sought to sober down the impetuous man into the
calm machine, faded away before the burst of awful and commanding
passions that swept over his soul. Tell a man, in the full tide of his
triumphs, that he bears death within him; and what crisis of thought can
be more startling and more terrible!

Maltravers had, as we have seen, cared little for fame, till fame had
been brought within his reach: then, with every step he took, new
Alps had arisen. Each new conjecture brought to light a new truth that
demanded enforcement or defence. Rivalry and competition chafed his
blood, and kept his faculties at their full speed. He had the generous
race-horse spirit of emulation. Ever in action, ever in progress,
cheered on by the sarcasms of foes, even more than by the applause of
friends, the desire of glory had become the habit of existence. When we
have commenced a career, what stop is there till the grave?--where is
the definite barrier of that ambition which, like the eastern bird,
seems ever on the wing, and never rests upon the earth? Our names are
not settled till our death: the ghosts of what we have done are made our
haunting monitors--our scourging avengers--if ever we cease to do,
or fall short of the younger past. Repose is oblivion; to pause is to
unravel al