ked coldly at him; or at any rate, he thought that they did
so. Some debate was going on about the Ballot, at which members were
repeating their last year's speeches with new emphasis. Sir Henry
twice attempted to get upon his legs, but the Speaker would not have
his eye caught. Men right and left of him, who were minnows to him in
success, found opportunities for delivering themselves; but the world
of Parliament did not wish at present to hear anything further from
Sir Henry. So he returned to his house in Eaton Square.

As soon as he found himself again in his own dining-room, he called
for brandy, and drank off a brimming glass; he drank off one, and
then another. The world and solitude together were too much for him,
and he could not bear them without aid. Then, having done this, he
threw himself into his arm-chair, and stared at the fireplace. How
tenfold sorrowful are our sorrows when borne in solitude! Some one
has said that grief is half removed when it is shared. How little
that some one knew about it! Half removed! When it is duly shared
between two loving hearts, does not love fly off with eight-tenths of
it? There is but a small remainder left for the two to bear between
them.

But there was no loving heart here. All alone he had to endure the
crushing weight of his misfortunes. How often has a man said, when
evil times have come upon him, that he could have borne it all
without complaint, but for his wife and children? The truth, however,
has been that, but for them, he could not have borne it at all.
Why does any man suffer with patience "the slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune," or put up with "the whips and scorns of time,"
but that he does so for others, not for himself? It is not that we
should all be ready, each to make his own quietus with a bare bodkin;
but that we should run from wretchedness when it comes in our path.
Who fights for himself alone? Who would not be a coward, if none but
himself saw the battle--if none others were concerned in it?

With Sir Henry, there was none other to see the battle, none to take
concern in it. If solitude be bad in times of misery, what shall we
say of unoccupied solitude? of solitude, too, without employment for
the man who has been used to labour?

Such was the case with him. His whole mind was out of tune. There was
nothing now that he could do; no work to which he could turn himself.
He sat there gazing at the empty fireplace till the moments became