t to
be plunged into that kind of torpor, which at least prevents one from
dwelling upon the past.

Hardy resigned himself entirely to this profound apathy, and at length
came to regard it as the supreme good. Thus do unfortunate wretches,
tortured by cruel diseases, accept with gratitude the opiate which kills
them slowly, but which at least deadens the sense of pain.

In sketching the portrait of M. Hardy, we tried to give some idea of the
exquisite delicacy of his tender soul, of his painful susceptibility with
regard to anything base or wicked, and of his extreme goodness,
uprightness, and generosity. We now allude to these admirable qualities,
because we must observe, that with him, as with almost all who possess
them, they were not, and could not be, united with an energetic and
resolute character. Admirably persevering in good deeds, the influence of
this excellent man, was insinuating rather than commanding; it was not by
the bold energy and somewhat overbearing will, peculiar to other men of
great and noble heart, that Hardy had realized the prodigy of his Common
Dwelling-house; it was by affectionate persuasion, for with him mildness
took the place of force. At sight of any baseness or injustice, he did
not rouse himself, furious and threatening; but he suffered intense pain.
He did not boldly attack the criminal, but he turned away from him in
pity and sorrow. And then his loving heart, so full of feminine delicacy,
had an irresistible longing for the blessed contact of dear affections;
they alone could keep it alive. Even as a poor, frail bird dies with the
cold, when it can no longer lie close to its brethren, and receive and
communicate the sweet warmth of the maternal nest. And now this sensitive
organization, this extremely susceptible nature, receives blow after blow
from sorrows and deceptions, one of which would suffice to shake, if it
did not conquer, the firmest and most resolute character. Hardy's best
friend has infamously betrayed him. His adored mistress has abandoned
him.

The house which he had founded for the benefit of his workmen, whom he
loved as brethren, is reduced to a heap of ashes. What then happens? All
the springs of his soul are at once broken. Too feeble to resist such
frightful attacks, too fatally deceived to seek refuge in other
affections, too much discouraged to think of laying the first stone of
any new edifice--this poor heart, isolated from every salutary influence,
fin