for having deprived me of what seemed the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me to that wretched couch of thorns.
Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet, it was not wholly sleepless: towards morning my distracting thoughts began to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an interval of unconscious slumber. But then the dawn of bitter recollection that succeeded—the waking to find life a blank, and worse than a blank—teeming with torment and misery—not a mere barren wilderness, but full of thorns and briars—to find myself deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel not an angel, and my friend a fiend incarnate—it was worse than if I had not slept at all.
It was a dull, gloomy morning, the weather had changed like my prospects, and the rain
