He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Thank him, not me, man. 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. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast. "My child!" he groaned faintly. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. He seated himself before it. I’ve to collect my sword and hat, and then we must get back to London. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. “I have learned that. ” Ogilvy reflected.
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