In a being whose soul is but the shadow of yours, a second soul looking towards the same end as your soul, or in a being whose soul differs radically, and is concerned with other satisfactions and other ideals, you will most probably find some part of the happiness of your dreams, but in intercourse with one who is grossly like you, but who is absolutely different when the upper ways of character are taken into account, there will be—­no matter how inexorable are the ties that bind—­much fret and irritation and noisy clashing.  It was so with John Norton and his mother; even in the exercise of faculties that had been directly transmitted from one to the other there had been angry collision.  For example:—­their talents for business were identical; but while she thought the admirable conduct of her affairs was a thing to be proud of, he would affect an air of negligence, and would willingly have it believed that he lived independent of such gross necessities.  Then his malady—­for intense depression of the spirits was a malady with him—­offered an ever-recurring cause of misunderstanding.  How irritating it was when he lay shut up in his room, his soul looking down with murderous eyes on the poor worm that writhed out its life in view of the pitiless stars, and longing with a fierce wild longing to shake off the burning garment of consciousness, and plunge into the black happiness of the grave, to hear Mrs Norton on the threshold uttering from time to time admonitory remarks.

“You should not give way to such feelings, sir; you should not allow yourself to be unhappy.  Look at me, am I unhappy? and I have more to bear with than you, but I am not always thinking of myself....  I am in fairly good health, and I am always cheerful!  Why are you not the same?  You bring it all upon yourself; I have no pity for you....  You should cease to think of yourself, and try to do your duty.”

John groaned when he heard this last word.  He knew very well what his mother meant.  He should buy three hunters, he should marry.  These were the anodynes that were offered to him in and out of season.  “Bad enough that I should exist!  Why precipitate another into the gulf of being?” “Consort with men whose ideal hovers between a stable boy and a veterinary surgeon;” and then, amused by the paradox, John, to whom the chase was evocative of forests, pageantry, spears, would quote some stirring verses of an old ballad, and allude to certain pictures by Rubens, Wouvermans, and Snyders.  “Why do you talk in that way?” “Why do you seek to make yourself ridiculous?” Mrs Norton would retort.