and yet," he said, after a pause, " his lordship
and I are never apart."

I looked again incredulous, and he laughed
again.

"Did you ever read the beautiful apologue
of the choice of Hercules? " he said. I
bowed.

"Well, all men have the same chance given
them as the son of Alcmena. Some choose
the good, some the evil; that is to say, in our
modern phrase, some choose the way of
success in life, and some the way of
misfortune. I chose both."

"You could scarcely walk in both—at the
same time," I said, waiting for the explanation
of the riddle.

"O, yes, I did; they are not widely
separated; they are always in sight of each other.
It is pleasant to stand in the low way of poverty
and disappointment, and look at the brilliant
appearance presented on the upper road. It
is like a beggar looking at the carriages in
Hyde Park of a Sunday. With me the roads
separated at school, when I was fifteen; and
they have run parallel and therefore inconjoinable
ever since. Since that time, I have
always clearly before my eyes two figures,—
one is the man I am, the other the man I
might have been. I have traced the career
of the second personage as clearly as that of
the first. It is a great comfort to me; I
rejoice in his success as if it were my own;
and what matters it, whether I go into the
union or not. Is not he in the House of
Lords? Why should I complain of being
useless, cast aside, despised? Isn't he the
advocate of reform; the corrector of vice; the
friend of the destitute? honoured for his
virtues? reverenced for his wisdom?

"I was the cleverest boy at the greatest of
the English schools. Before I was sixteen
my talents had attracted notice in many
quarters outside the college walls. A tall
man with pursed up lips and frigid expression,
stood next the king at one of the
examinations. I was the hero of the day. George
the Third spluttered out, 'Good boy, good
boy! clever, eh? very clever! ' a hundred
times, pretending he understood what was
going on. The tall gentleman said nothing
till he was going away. He then took me by
the hand, told me to go on with my studies, but
not to neglect contemporaiy affairs. 'If I
am in power three years hence, come to me;
this introduction will suffice.' Mr. Pitt
stalked away and I never saw him again. At
the end of three years, I saw very clearly
what I ought to do; but I didn't do it. I
wandered through the fields with a book in
my hand. I was shy,—proud, perhaps; ' if
he remembers me,' I said, 'he will make
inquiry; if he has forgotten me, he will
order me out of his room.' But the gentleman
I told you of—the man I might have
been—went to Downing Street on his nineteenth
birthday. He took Mr. Pitt by the
hand; he said I have done as you advised.
To gain the privilege of visiting you thus, I
have studied night and day. What further
command do you give me? Pitt smiled;
advised him to go to college, to practise
oratory, to control his poetic fancies
sufficiently to make them the embellishment of
his oratory, not the employment of his life.

"' And my profession? ' inquired the
youth.

"' The bar. It will accustom you to the
use of your weapons. But come to me often.
I give no commands; we will take counsel
together, and decide what is to be done.'

"Meanwhile, I fell in love. My father
had left me five thousand pounds. I thought
two hundred and fifty pounds a-year a
fortune for a prince. So did Mary Lambert,—
and when I was three-and-twenty we married.
She was nineteen. She had been very poor
all her life, and believed our income would
last for ever. She had never had handsome
clothes. She dressed like a princess; I liked
her better in the russet gown she used to
wear, when I courted her at her father's
farm, and helped her over the stile with the
milk-pails. She was very beautiful, and
could scarcely read. She did not see the use
of books, but was always so delighted to show
her new gowns, her fashionable bonnets, her
Indian shawls, to her former equals, that she
spent our year's income in a milliner's shop,
and we went rapidly into debt. I had my
own resources, and read more than ever. I
tried even to compose, but never could please
myself with my work. I threw away a
novel before it was half-finished, a poem at
the fifth stanza, a political pamphlet before I
had arranged the arguments,—and contented
myself with listening to the applause be-
stowed on the protégé of Mr. Pitt. His first
speech in parliament—he was a member for
a family borough— was a miracle. His paper
on French aggression (the one I did not
write) was thought the finest political work
since Burke on the Revolution. Pitt died,
and he was called out of Westminster Hall,
and established in Downing Street. At this
time I left the comfortable house we had
lived in since our marriage; the expense of
our establishment was too great. I had now
a child, a daughter of six years' old, and I
regretted our extravagance for her sake. We
had run through more than half our principal,
and I insisted on retrenchment. My
wife did not comprehend the word, but
bought new gowns, though in the out-of-the-
way place I fled to, there was no one to
admire their beauty. She clothed Matilda,
in lace and satin. She loved me with all
her heart; but never understood that it was
possible for a man to love his wife, and yet
refuse her a velvet cloak at two guineas
a-yard. She thought I disliked her; she
was sure I hated the child; I adored
them both, and they had each a mantle of
Genoa pile, and we had now but ninety
pounds a-year. But young Rowlands of the