chanism; what a separate and distinct world in each!
Such is Civilization! How like we are one to the other in the mass! how
strangely dissimilar in the abstract!

CHAPTER IV.

"If," says a great thinker (Degerando, "_Du Perfectionment Moral_,"
chapter ix., "On the Difficulties we encounter in Self-Study")--"if
one concentrates reflection too much on one's self, one ends by no
longer seeing anything, or seeing only what one wishes. By the very
act, as it were, of capturing one's self, the personage we believe
we have seized escapes, disappears. Nor is it only the complexity
of our inner being which obstructs our examination, but its
exceeding variability. The investigator's regard should embrace all
the sides of the subject, and perseveringly pursue all its phases."

It is the race-week in Humberston, a county town far from Gatesboro',
and in the north of England. The races last three days: the first day
is over; it has been a brilliant spectacle; the course crowded with the
carriages of provincial magnates, with equestrian betters of note from
the metropolis; blacklegs in great muster; there have been gaming-booths
on the ground, and gypsies telling fortunes; much champagne imbibed by
the well-bred, much soda-water and brandy by the vulgar. Thousands and
tens of thousands have been lost and won: some paupers have been for the
time enriched; some rich men made poor for life. Horses have won fame;
some of their owners lost character. Din and uproar, and coarse oaths,
and rude passions,--all have had their hour. The amateurs of the higher
classes have gone back to dignified country-houses, as courteous hosts
or favoured guests. The professional speculators of a lower grade have
poured back into the county town, and inns and taverns are crowded.
Drink is hotly called for at reeking bars; waiters and chambermaids pass
to and fro, with dishes and tankards and bottles in their hands. All is
noise and bustle, and eating and swilling, and disputation and slang,
wild glee, and wilder despair, amongst those who come back from the
race-course to the inns in the county town. At one of these taverns,
neither the best nor the worst, and in a small narrow slice of a room
that seemed robbed from the landing-place, sat Mrs. Crane, in her
iron-gray silk gown. She was seated close by the open window, as
carriages, chaises, flies, carts, vans, and horsemen succeeded each
other thick and fast, watching the