I dissatisfy every body. A maimed, weak, imperfect
wretch, it seems as if I am unequal to any fortune. I neither make
myself nor any one connected with me happy. What prospect is there for
this poor little frivolous girl, who is to take my obscure name, and
share my fortune? I have not even ambition to excite me, or
self-esteem enough to console myself, much more her, for my failure.
If I were to write a book that should go through twenty editions, why,
I should be the very first to sneer at my reputation. Say I could
succeed at the bar, and achieve a fortune by bullying witnesses and
twisting evidence; is that a fame which would satisfy my longings, or
a calling in which my life would be well spent? How I wish I could be
that priest opposite, who never has lifted his eyes from his breviary,
except when we were in Reigate tunnel, when he could not see; or that
old gentleman next him, who scowls at him with eyes of hatred over his
newspaper. The priest shuts his eyes to the world, but has his
thoughts on the book, which is his directory to the world to come.
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