midnight passed away in their society; for Walter was flattered and excited. But deep in his inmost soul he felt that this was not the fate he had purposed to achieve amid the green valleys of his youth. His early dreams haunted him like reproaches; and every morning he rose with the full purpose of pursuing some more settled plan: but he lacked motive, he had no one dependent on his industry; and every day he grew to careless and less for hopes, that he now overharshly held to be illusions.
To see much of mankind sickens the philosopher and the poet; only in solitude can he continue to work for their benefit, or to crave for their sympathy. An expression that Pope had used while talking to Walter, had produced a far deeper impression than its utterer suspected, or, perhaps, intended. "If," said Pope, "I were to begin life over again, knowing what I know now, I would not write a single verse."
Maynard could not help thinking "Of
