as this may appear utterly preposterous, because, according to the received dogma, there can be no love without a certain amount of love-making; and I have not ventured in the foregoing part of my narrative to assert that Miss Beaton had distinguished me by even so slight a recognition as a smile. She knew nothing of my homage-she perhaps hardly remembered my name; her affections, for anything I knew to the contrary, might be bestowed upon another. Therefore, was I not a fool to persist in such vain idolatry, and to indulge in such fantastic dreams? I answer-No; for true love is in its nature intrepid, and there is no obstacle so serious that it will not endeavour to surmount.

CHAPTER XI.

CLOUDLAND AND A COMING SHADOW.

I AM not much of a schemer, nor extravagantly addicted to the architectural amusement of building castles in the air, but the consciousness that I was now in possession of a fortune much greater than I had ever hoped to obtain by personal exertion, did certainly give some stimulus to my imagination. When I awoke on the morning after my interview with Mr Shearaway, I was in no hurry to rise, but gave myself up to indulgence in a reverie as full of thick-coming fancies and brilliant phantasmagoria as are the clouds at sunset, when all the hues of heaven are intermingled in gorgeous profusion and disorder, and when aërial forms of wondrous tracery and device rise, float, and dissolve in the molten atmosphere of the west.

Independence, to a certain extent, I had already achieved—that is, I had abjured the folly of trusting to others for a helping hand, and thus had escaped from the degradation of political subserviency and bondage. That was, of itself, no slight matter; because expec

tancy is not only an obstacle to all honourable enterprise, but it insensibly cripples and enfeebles the mind, depriving it of the power of forming just conclusions, and of discerning between the false and the true. The man who is wholly self-reliant may no doubt be unfortunate, but he never can be despicable. Though his labour may but suffice to gain for him a daily crust, better is that meagre fare than the seat of a sycophant at the sumptuous table of the rich.

Now, however, I found myself all at once not only independent, but free-free from the necessity of labouring continuously for mere existence-free to adopt any career in life towards which I felt an inclination. What ought I, under the circumstances, to do? —what were to be my future avocations? Should I attempt to make a figure in the world, and strive after fame and distinction ?—or should I, availing myself of my good fortune, abandon all such ideas, and subside into passive inaction? In the days of my poverty I had almost reproached Carlton for his indolence in avoiding public life, since he had ample means at his disposal. I had talked somewhat dogmatically to the apathetic Mr Lumley of the duties incumbent upon men of property and position; and I had even lectured Attie Faunce on his desultory and aimless habits. I was then very proud of myself, and self-gratulatory, because I had worked steadily, and to some little purpose; and it had appeared to me that all men were under a moral obligation to do the like. But I had omitted to take into account the nature of the incen

tive. I had really no merit in working, for without work I must have starved. There was no help for it; I must either swim or go down, so I set myself to buffet with the waves. I tried to reach the shore, on which I saw other people reposing; and it seemed to me that their quiescence, in contrast with my struggle, was something almost sinful. I wondered why they also did not battle with the stream. At length, however, I felt ground beneath my feet, and then began to think that, after all, there might be some sort of difference between forced and voluntary exercise.

its

My cogitations, as is usual in such cases, had no definite or practical result. I have already hinted that my ambition was never exorbitant in degree; and increased experience, and observation of the world and ways, had convinced me that those who attempt to climb the highest, and who cannot endure to see a rival above them, make a wanton and foolish sacrifice of much of the happiness of existence. I am loth to disturb with a rude breath even one filament of the charm-woven gossamer of poetry; but I really must say that I feel no sort of sympathy for Mr Longfellow's hero, who persisted in carrying his Excelsior banner to the very summit of the Alps, and got frozen to death for his pains. Common sense should have dictated to him the propriety of tarrying at the hospice. This, I know, will be regarded by many as a base and ignoble sentiment; for it is astonishing what a multitude of people are continually urging others to press forward and upward, whilst, for their own share, they are

VOL. II.

M

content to remain stationary. They are quite happy to be spectators of the superhuman exertion, energy, and daring of the gladiators whom they can coax into the arena; but catch them deliberately placing themselves within reach of the weapon of the retiarius! So they will applaud—and very loudly too, and sometimes sincerely enough-the feats which are exhibited before them; whether the operator be a politician, who, by dint of vivid intellect and commanding oratory, aspires to sway the senate or a hero (so long as he is fortunate), who presents himself as the champion of the liberties of his country—or a tauridor in the bull-ring of Seville-or a Blondin, wheeling a barrow on a tightrope over the Falls of Niagara-or any other character who has nerve enough to approach the confines of the impossible. It is they who shout "Excelsior!" and they often continue to do so long after the object of their applause is thoroughly sick of his undertaking, and would fain retire from the post of peril. God forbid that I should undervalue any effort which a man can make when prompted by a sense of duty! I know, and am proud to acknowledge, that there are men-ay, and women too-who have dignified our generation by the most noble disinterestedness and self-sacrifice; who have consecrated their lives to the service of their Creator and their fellow-men with entire singleness of heart, and no thought of the applause of the world; but deeply indeed would I dishonour them if I should say that they were actuated