barely time to conceal myself, when, with a merry laugh, a fresh,
girlish voice called out, "I 've seen him! I have seen him, Mary! I
was sitting on the rock beside the river, when he came into the
summer-house, and, fancying himself alone and unseen, proceeded to make
his confession to himself."

"His confession! What do you mean?"

"I don't exactly know whether that be the proper name for it, but it was
a sort of self-examination, not very painful, certainly, inasmuch as it
was rather flattering than otherwise."

"I really cannot understand you, Rose."

"I'm not surprised," said she, laughing again. "It was some time before
I could satisfy myself that he was not talking to somebody else, or
reading ont of a book; and when, peeping through the leaves, I perceived
he was quite alone, I almost screamed out with laughing."

"But why, child? What was the absurdity that amused you?"

"Fancy the creature. I need not describe him, Molly. You know him well,
with his great staring light-green eyes, and his wild yellow hair.
Imagine his walking madly to and fro, tossing his long arms about in
uncouth gestures, while he asked himself seriously whether he would
n't be Shakspeare, or Milton, or Michael Angelo, or Nelson. Fancy his
gravely inquiring of himself what remarkable qualities predominated
in his nature: was he more of a sculptor, or a politician, or had fate
destined him to discover new worlds, or to conquer the old ones? If
I had n't been actually listening to the creature, and occasionally
looking at him, too, I 'd have doubted my senses. Oh dear! shall I ever
forget the earnest absurdity of his manner as he said something about
the 'immortal Potts'?"

The reminiscence was too much for her, for she threw herself on a sofa
and laughed immoderately. As for me, unable to endure more, and fearful
that Mary might finish by discovering me, I stole from the room, and
rushed out into the wood.

What is it that renders ridicule more insupportable than vituperation?
Why is the violence of passion itself more easy to endure than the sting
of sarcastic satire? What weak spot in our nature does this peculiar
passion assail? And, again, why are all the noble aspirations of
high-hearted enthusiasm, the grand self-reliance of daring minds, ever
to be made the theme of such scoffings? Have the scorners never read of
Wolfe, of Murat, or of Nelson? Has not a more familiar instance reached
them of one who foretold to an unwilling