It is so, and ever will be so. Such are the phases
of man's downfall, that few follow them to the facts, while rumour
rules supreme over misfortune. There may be a fountain of human pain
concealed beneath it; but few extend the hand to stay its
quickening. Nay, when all is gone, mammon cries, more! until body
and soul are crushed beneath the "more" of relentless self.
"Few know the intricacies of our system; perhaps 'twere well, lest
our souls should not be safe within us. But, ah! my conscience
chides me here. And betwixt those feelings which once saw all things
right, but now through necessity beholds their grossest wrongs,
comes the pain of self-condemnation. It is a condemnation haunting
me unto death. Had I been ignorant of Clotilda's history, the
fiendish deed of those who wronged her in her childhood had not now
hung like a loathsome pestilence around my very garments. That which
the heart rebukes cannot be concealed; but we must be obedient to
the will that directs all things;--and if it be that we remain blind
in despotism until misfortune opens our eyes, let the cause of the
calamity be charged to those it belongs to," he concludes; and then,
after a few minutes' silence, he lights his taper, and sets it upon
the table. His care-worn countenance pales with melancholy; his hair
has whitened with tribulation; his demeanour denotes a man of tender
sensibility fast sinking into a physical wreck. A well-soiled book
lies on the table, beside which he takes his seat; he turns its
pages over and over carelessly, as if it were an indifferent
amusement to wile away the time.
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