ot the career which I have hitherto pursued.
All this excitement which they talk of so much wears out the mind,
and, I begin to believe, even the body, for certainly my energies
seem deserting me. But two years, two miserable years, four-and-twenty
months, eight-and-forty times the hours, the few hours, that I have been
worse than wasting here, and I am shipwrecked, fairly bulged. Yet I have
done everything, tried everything, and my career has been an eminent
career. Woe to the wretch who trusts to his pampered senses for
felicity! Woe to the wretch who flies from the bright goddess Sympathy,
to sacrifice before the dark idol Self-love! Ah! I see too late, we were
made for each other. Too late, I discover the beautiful results of this
great principle of creation. Oh! the blunders of an unformed character!
Oh! the torture of an ill-regulated mind!

'Give me a life with no fierce alternations of rapture and anguish, no
impossible hopes, no mad depression. Free me from the delusions which
succeed each other like scentless roses, that are ever blooming. Save me
from the excitement which brings exhaustion, and from the passion that
procreates remorse. Give me the luminous mind, where recognised and
paramount duty dispels the harassing, ascertains the doubtful, confirms
the wavering, sweetens the bitter. Give me content. Oh! give me love!

'How is it to end? What is to become of me? Can nothing rescue me? Is
there no mode of relief, no place of succour, no quarter of refuge, no
hope of salvation? I cannot right myself, and there is an end of it.
Society, society, society! I owe thee much; and perhaps in working in
thy service, those feelings might be developed which I am now convinced
are the only source of happiness; but I am plunged too deep in the quag.
I have no impulse, no call. I know not how it is, but my energies, good
and evil, seem alike vanishing. There stares that fellow at my carriage!
God! willingly would I break the stones upon the road for a year, to
clear my mind of all the past!'

A carriage dashed by, and a lady bowed. It was Mrs. Dallington Vere.

The Duke had appointed his banker to dine with him, as not a moment must
be lost in preparing for the reception of his Brighton drafts. He was
also to receive, this evening, a complete report of all his affairs. The
first thing that struck his eye on his table was a packet from Sir Carte
Blanche. He opened it eagerly, stared, started, nearly shrieked. It
fell