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. "How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. He could not kiss Ruth. "He has heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you're like. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him another. Wood, ironically; "but I used to think it required something more than mere words to prove that a person's character was abused. You came out like an ant for your nuptial flight. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up in some dudgeon. . —Strype's Stow. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter.
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