pompeys cantered off with the Shropshires; omen of felicity to
the enamoured St. Maurice and the enamouring Sophy. Annesley and Squib
returned to their pates. Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite, neither of them
with tempers like summer skies, betook their way to Cambridgeshire, like
Adam and Eve from the glorious garden. The Duke of St. James, after a
hurried visit to London, found himself, at the beginning of October, on
his way to Dacre.

As his carriage rolled on he revelled in delicious fancies. The young
Duke built castles not only at Hauteville, but in less substantial
regions. Reverie, in the flush of our warm youth, generally indulges in
the future. We are always anticipating the next adventure and clothe the
coming heroine with a rosy tint. When we advance a little on our limited
journey, and an act or two of the comedy, the gayest in all probability,
are over, the wizard Memory dethrones the witch Imagination, and 'tis
the past on which the mind feeds in its musings. 'Tis then we ponder
on each great result which has stolen on us without the labour of
reflection; 'tis then we analyse emotions which, at the time, we could
not comprehend, and probe the action which passion inspired, and which
prejudice has hitherto defended. Alas! who can strike these occasional
balances in life's great ledger without a sigh! Alas! how little do
they promise in favour of the great account! What whisperings of final
bankruptcy! what a damnable consciousness of present insolvency! My
friends! what a blunder is youth! Ah! why does Truth light her torch but
to illume the ruined temple of our existence! Ah! why do we know we are
men only to be conscious of our exhausted energies!

And yet there is a pleasure in a deal of judgment which your judicious
man alone can understand. It is agreeable to see some younkers falling
into the same traps which have broken our own shins; and, shipwrecked
on the island of our hopes, one likes to mark a vessel go down full in
sight. 'Tis demonstration that we are not branded as Cains among the
favoured race of man. Then giving advice: that _is_ delicious, and
perhaps repays one all. It is a privilege your grey-haired signors
solely can enjoy; but young men now-a-days may make some claims to it.
And, after all, experience is a thing that all men praise. Bards sing
its glories, and proud Philosophy has long elected it her favourite
child. 'Tis the '_ro Kaxav_', in spite of all its ugliness, and the
_elixir