ce, Mr. Lindsay,
and I soon saw that my uncle was entirely a different man from the
brother whom my mother remembered. He had risen, by a course of slow
industry, from comparative poverty, and his feelings had worn out in the
process. The character was case-hardened all over; and the polish it
bore--for I have rarely met a smoother man--seemed no improvement. He
was, in brief, one of the class content to dwell for ever in mere
decencies, with consciences made up of the conventional moralities, who
think by precedent, bow to public opinion as their god, and estimate
merit by its weight in guineas."

"And so your visit," I said, "was a very brief one?"

"You distress me," he replied. "It should have been so; but it was not.
But what could I do? Ever since my father's death I had been taught to
consider this man as my natural guardian, and I was now unwilling to
part with my last hope. But this is not all. Under much apparent
activity, my friend, there is a substratum of apathetical indolence in
my disposition: I move rapidly when in motion, but when at rest there is
a dull inertness in the character, which the will, when unassisted by
passion, is too feeble to overcome. Poor, weak creature that I am! I had
sitten down by my uncle's fireside, and felt unwilling to rise. Pity me,
my friend--I deserve your pity--but, oh, do not despise me!"

"Forgive me, Mr. Ferguson," I said; "I have given you pain--but surely
most unwittingly."

"I am ever a fool," he continued; "but my story lags; and, surely, there
is little in it on which it were pleasure to dwell. I sat at this man's
table for six months, and saw, day after day, his manner towards me
becoming more constrained and his politeness more cold; and yet I staid
on, till at last my clothes were worn threadbare, and he began to feel
that the shabbiness of the nephew affected the respectability of the
uncle. His friend the soap-boiler, and his friend the oil-merchant, and
his friend the manager of the hemp manufactory, with their wives and
daughters--all people of high standing in the world--occasionally
honoured his table with their presence, and how could he be other than
ashamed of mine? It vexes me that I cannot even yet be cool on the
subject--it vexes me that a creature so sordid should have so much the
power to move me--but I cannot, I cannot master my feelings. He--he told
me--and with whom should the blame rest, but with the weak, spiritless
thing who lingered on in