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Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood

still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment,

lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable

ambition, self-denial, and perseverance. In the fair city of this

vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces

looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung

ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment,

and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses,

he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its

pillow was wet with wasted tears.

Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the

man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their

directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own

happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself

to let it eat him away.

CHAPTER VI. Hundreds of People