atures, who, if never
overjoyed by success, are never much depressed by failure. That I have
been cast in the former mould, these Confessions have, alas! plainly
proved; but that I regret it, I fear also, for my character for sound
judgment, I must answer "No."

Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than be blest with light, and see
That light for ever flying

is, doubtless, very pretty poetry, but very poor philosophy. For myself
--and some glimpses of sunshine this fair world has afforded me, fleeting
and passing enough, in all conscience--and yet I am not so ungrateful as
to repine at my happiness, because it was not permanent, as I am thankful
for those bright hours of "Love's young dream," which, if nothing more,
are at least delightful souvenirs. They form the golden thread in the
tangled web of our existence, ever appearing amid the darker surface
around, and throwing a fair halo of brilliancy on what, without it, were
cold, bleak, and barren. No, no--

The light that lies
In woman's eyes,

were it twice as fleeting--as it is ten times more brilliant--than the
forked lightning, irradiates the dark gloom within us for many a long day
after it has ceased to shine upon us. As in boyhood it is the humanizing
influence that tempers the fierce and unruly passions of our nature, so
in manhood it forms the goal to which all our better and higher
aspirations tend, telling us there is something more worthy than gold,
and a more lofty pinnacle of ambition than the praise and envy of our
fellow-men; and we may rest assured, that when this feeling dies within
us, that all the ideal of life dies with it, and nothing remains save the
dull reality of our daily cares and occupations. "I have lived and have
loved," saith Schiller; and if it were not that there seems some
tautology in the phrase, I should say, such is my own motto. If Lady
Jane but prove true--if I have really succeeded--if, in a word--but why
speculate upon such chances?--what pretensions have I?--what reasons to
look for such a prize? Alas! and alas! were I to catechise myself too
closely, I fear that my horses' heads would face towards Calais, and that
I should turn my back upon the only prospect of happiness I can picture
to myself in this world. In reflections such as these, the hours rolled
over, and it was already late at night when we reac