rt, yet how closely linked, had been the
great events in my wandering and wild life! My early acquaintance with
Bolingbroke, whom for more than nine years I had not seen, and who, at
a superficial glance, would seem to have exercised influence over my
public rather than my private life,--how secretly, yet how powerfully,
had that circumstance led even to the very thoughts which now possessed
me, and to the very object on which I was now bound. But for that
circumstance I might not have learned of the retreat of Don Diego
d'Alvarez in his last illness; I might never have renewed my love to
Isora; and whatever had been her fate, destitution and poverty
would have been a less misfortune than her union with me. But for my
friendship for Bolingbroke, I might not have visited France, nor
gained the favour of the Regent, nor the ill offices of Dubois, nor the
protection and kindness of the Czar. I might never have been ambassador
at the court of------, nor met with Bezoni, nor sought an asylum for
a spirit sated with pomp and thirsting for truth, at the foot of the
Apennines, nor read that history (which, indeed, might then never
have occurred) that now rankled at my heart, urging my movements and
colouring my desires. Thus, by the finest but the strongest meshes had
the thread of my political honours been woven with that of my private
afflictions. And thus, even at the licentious festivals of the Regent of
France, or the lifeless parade of the court of------, the dark stream of
events had flowed onward beneath my feet, bearing me insensibly to that
very spot of time from which I now surveyed the past and looked upon the
mist and shadows of the future.

Adverse winds made the little voyage across the Channel a business of
four days. On the evening of the last we landed at Dover. Within thirty
miles of that town was my mother's retreat; and I resolved, before I
sought a reconciliation with Gerald or justice against Montreuil, to
visit her seclusion. Accordingly, the next day I repaired to her abode.

What a contrast is there between the lives of human beings! Considering
the beginning and the end of all mortal careers are the same, how
wonderfully is the interval varied! Some, the weeds of the world, dashed
from shore to shore,--all vicissitude, enterprise, strife, disquiet;
others, the world's lichen, rooted to some peaceful rock, growing,
flourishing, withering on the same spot,--scarce a feeling expressed,
scarce a sentimen