He called up in review the years, that, even at his
early age, he had spent in solitary study, in conversation
with the dead, while he had scorned to mingle with
the living world, or to be actuated by any of its
motives. He asked himself to what purpose was
all this destructive labor, and where was the happiness
of superior knowledge. He had climbed but a few
steps of a ladder that reached to infinity: he
had thrown away his life in discovering, that, after
a thousand such lives, he should still know comparatively
nothing. He even looked forward with dread—though
once the thought had been dear to him—to
the eternity of improvement that lay before him.
It seemed now a weary way, without a resting-place
and without a termination; and at that moment he would
have preferred the dreamless sleep of the brutes that
perish to man’s proudest attribute,—of
immortality.
Fanshawe had hitherto deemed himself unconnected with
the world, Unconcerned in its feelings, and uninfluenced
by it in any of his pursuits. In this respect
he probably deceived himself. If his inmost heart
could have been laid open, there would have been discovered
that dream of undying fame, which, dream as it is,
is more powerful than a thousand realities. But,
at any rate, he had seemed, to others and to himself,
a solitary being, upon whom the hopes and fears of
ordinary men were ineffectual.
But now he felt the first thrilling of one of the
many ties, that, so long as we breathe the common
air, (and who shall say how much longer?) unite us
to our kind. The sound of a soft, sweet voice,
the glance of a gentle eye, had wrought a change upon
him; and in his ardent mind a few hours had done the
work of many. Almost in spite of himself, the
new sensation was inexpressibly delightful. The
recollection of his ruined health, of his habits (so
much at variance with those of the world),—all
the difficulties that reason suggested, were inadequate
to check the exulting tide of hope and joy.
CHAPTER III.
“And let the aspiring youth beware
of love,—
Of the smooth glance beware; for ’tis
too late
When on his heart the torrent softness
pours;
Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading
fame
Dissolves in air away.”
Thomson.
A few months passed over the heads of Ellen Langton
and her admirers, unproductive of events, that, separately,
were of sufficient importance to be related.
The summer was now drawing to a close; and Dr. Melmoth
had received information that his friend’s arrangements
were nearly completed, and that by the next home-bound
ship he hoped to return to his native country.
The arrival of that ship was daily expected.
During the time that had elapsed since his first meeting
with Ellen, there had been a change, yet not a very
remarkable one, in Fanshawe’s habits. He
was still the same solitary being, so far as regarded
his own sex; and he still confined himself as sedulously
to his chamber, except for one hour— the
sunset hour—of every day. At that period,
unless prevented by the inclemency of the weather,
he was accustomed to tread a path that wound along
the banks of the stream. He had discovered that
this was the most frequent scene of Ellen’s
walks; and this it was that drew him thither.
