I cannot raise myself. I cannot revive my ancestral name; nay, I shall relinquish it for ever. I shall adopt a disguised appellation. I shall sink into another grade of life. In some remote village, by means of some humbler profession than that I now follow, we must earn our subsistence, and smile at ambition, I tell you frankly, Julia, when I close the eyes of my heart,—when I shut you from my gaze, this sacrifice appals me. But even then, you force yourself before me, and I feel that one glance from your eye is more to me than all. If you could bear with me—if you could soothe me—if, when a cloud is on me, you could suffer it to pass away unnoticed, and smile on me the moment it is gone, O, Julia, there would then be no extreme of poverty—no abasement of fortune—no abandonment of early dreams which would not seem to me rapture if coupled with the bliss of knowing that you are mine. Never should my lip—never should my eye tell you that there is that thing on earth for which I repine, or which I could desire. No, Julia, could I flatter my heart with this hope, you would not find me dream of unhappiness and
