itter to leave our fathers hearth for the first time; bitter is
the eve of our return, when a thousand fears rise in our haunted souls.
Bitter are hope deferred, and self-reproach, and power unrecognised.
Bitter is poverty; bitterer still is debt. It is bitter to be neglected;
it is more bitter to be misunderstood. It is bitter to lose an only
child. It is bitter to look upon the land which once was ours. Bitter is
a sister's woe, a brother's scrape; bitter a mother's tear, and bitterer
still a father's curse. Bitter are a briefless bag, a curate's bread, a
diploma that brings no fee. Bitter is half-pay!

It is bitter to muse on vanished youth; it is bitter to lose an
election or a suit. Bitter are rage suppressed, vengeance unwreaked, and
prize-money kept back. Bitter are a failing crop, a glutted market, and
a shattering spec. Bitter are rents in arrear and tithes in kind.
Bitter are salaries reduced and perquisites destroyed. Bitter is a tax,
particularly if misapplied; a rate, particularly if embezzled. Bitter is
a trade too full, and bitterer still a trade that has worn out. Bitter
is a bore!

It is bitter to lose one's hair or teeth. It is bitter to find our
annual charge exceed our income. It is bitter to hear of others' fame
when we are boys. It is bitter to resign the seals we fain would keep.
It is bitter to hear the winds blow when we have ships at sea, or
friends. Bitter are a broken friendship and a dying love. Bitter a woman
scorned, a man betrayed!

Bitter is the secret woe which none can share. Bitter are a brutal
husband and a faithless wife, a silly daughter and a sulky son. Bitter
are a losing card, a losing horse. Bitter the public hiss, the private
sneer. Bitter are old age without respect, manhood without wealth, youth
without fame. Bitter is the east wind's blast; bitter a stepdame's kiss.
It is bitter to mark the woe which we cannot relieve. It is bitter to
die in a foreign land.

But bitterer far than this, than these, than all, is waking from our
first delusion! For then we first feel the nothingness of self; that
hell of sanguine spirits. All is dreary, blank, and cold. The sun of
hope sets without a ray, and the dim night of dark despair shadows only
phantoms. The spirits that guard round us in our pride have gone. Fancy,
weeping, flies. Imagination droops her glittering pinions and sinks into
the earth. Courage has no heart, and love seems a traitor. A busy demon
whispers in our ear that