doned—she would have sympathised with—the memories of pain and regret that flung a deeper shadow on his path than even the ancient branches that swung mournfully above.
He was oppressed by a nameless terror in his soul—he seemed conscious of the actual presence of that inexorable destiny whose iron rule is over this world; in whose tyranny there is no pity, and from whose decree there is no escape. Toys that we are in that cruel and gigantic hand, we think, plan, resolve, and execute,—when, lo! some slight circumstance defeats our utmost wisdom; or else the issue of our effort has been the very reverse of our hope. And yet we boast, "the soul to do, the will to dare," while every hour that passes by mocks us with our infirmity, and every event laughs our purposes to scorn.
He was now pursuing the very paths that had been haunted by his youthful dreams: how had their generous hopes been disappointed—how had their best efforts failed! What a lesson of human inconsistency was graved on the last few years! England had been laid desolate as by a foreign war—the best blood in the country poured forth like water—noble feelings wasted, evil ones called from their hiding-places by impunity—battles fought on the harvest-field—lives spared
