hat sad conclusions his selfishness and
waywardness had led him. "Here is the end of hopes and aspirations,"
thought he, "of romance and ambitions! Where I yield or where I am
obstinate, I am alike unfortunate; my mother implores me, and I refuse
an angel! Say I had taken her; forced on me as she was, Laura would
never have been an angel to me. I could not have given her my heart at
another's instigation; I never could have known her as she is had I
been obliged to ask another to interpret her qualities and point out
her virtues. I yield to my uncle's solicitations, and accept on his
guarantee Blanche, and a seat in Parliament, and wealth, and ambition,
and a career; and see!--fortune comes and leaves me the wife without the
dowry, which I had taken in compensation of a heart. Why was I not more
honest, or am I not less so? It would have cost my poor old uncle no
pangs to accept Blanche's fortune whencesoever it came; he can't even
understand, he is bitterly indignant, heart-stricken, almost, at the
scruples which actuate me in refusing it. I dissatisfy everybody. A
maimed, weak, imperfect wretch, it seems as if I am unequal to any
fortune. I neither make myself nor any one connected with me happy. What
prospect is there for this poor little frivolous girl, who is to take
my obscure name and share my fortune? I have not even ambition to excite
me, or self-esteem enough to console myself, much more her, for my
failure. If I were to write a book that should go through twenty
editions, why, I should be the very first to sneer at my reputation. Say
I could succeed at the Bar, and achieve a fortune by bullying witnesses
and twisting evidence; is that a fame which would satisfy my longings,
or a calling in which my life would be well spent? How I wish I could be
that priest opposite, who never has lifted his eyes from his breviary,
except when we were in Reigate tunnel, when he could not see; or that
old gentleman next him, who scowls at him with eyes of hatred over his
newspaper. The priest shuts his eyes to the world, but has his thoughts
on the book, which is his directory to the world to come. His neighbour
hates him as a monster, tyrant, persecutor, and fancies burning martyrs,
and that pale countenance looking on, and lighted up by the flame. These
have no doubts; these march on trustfully, bearing their load of logic."

"Would you like to look at the paper, sir?" here interposed the
stout gentleman (it had a flaming art