See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. She has power over men’s fates in more ways than one. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I've seen him often do it. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON.
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