Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. E. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. “I feared we might have a fog. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. " "Till midnight," replied Jack.
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