et.
"This woman, I cannot get her out of my head. I ought to go down to the
governor's; but then if he gets into a passion, and refuses his consent,
where am I? And he will, too, I fear. I wish I could make out what
Randal advises. He seems to recommend that I should marry Beatrice at
once, and trust to my mother's influence to make all right afterwards.
But when I ask, 'Is that your advice?' he backs out of it. Well, I
suppose he is right there. I can understand that he is unwilling, good
fellow, to recommend anything that my father would disapprove. But
still--"

Here Frank stopped in his soliloquy, and did make his first desperate
effort to--think!

Now, O dear reader, I assume, of course, that thou art one of the class
to which thought is familiar; and, perhaps, thou hast smiled in disdain
or incredulity at that remark on the difficulty of thinking which
preceded Frank Hazeldean's discourse to himself. But art thou quite sure
that when thou hast tried to think thou hast always succeeded? Hast thou
not often been duped by that pale visionary simulacrum of thought which
goes by the name of revery? Honest old Montaigne confessed that he did
not understand that process of sitting down to think, on which some
folks express themselves so glibly. He could not think unless he had
a pen in his hand and a sheet of paper before him; and so, by a manual
operation, seized and connected the links of ratiocination. Very often
has it happened to myself when I have said to Thought peremptorily,
"Bestir thyself: a serious matter is before thee, ponder it well, think
of it," that that same thought has behaved in the most refractory,
rebellious manner conceivable; and instead of concentrating its rays
into a single stream of light, has broken into all the desultory tints
of the rainbow, colouring senseless clouds, and running off into the
seventh heaven, so that after sitting a good hour by the clock, with
brows as knit as if I was intent on squaring the circle, I have suddenly
discovered that I might as well have gone comfortably to sleep--I have
been doing nothing but dream,--and the most nonsensical dreams! So when
Frank Hazeldean, as he stopped at that meditative "But still "--and
leaning his arm on the chimney-piece, and resting his face on his hand,
felt himself at the grave crisis of life, and fancied he was going
"to think on it," there only rose before him a succession of shadowy
pictures,--Randal Leslie, with an unsatisfact