“There is more of what is specious than true in your distinction,” said my companion.  “Did we form ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and our powers?  I find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with chords and stops—­but I have no power to turn the pegs, or pitch my thoughts to a higher or lower key.”

“Other men,” I observed, “may be better musicians.”

“I talk not of others, but myself,” replied Raymond, “and I am as fair an example to go by as another.  I cannot set my heart to a particular tune, or run voluntary changes on my will.  We are born; we choose neither our parents, nor our station; we are educated by others, or by the world’s circumstance, and this cultivation, mingling with our innate disposition, is the soil in which our desires, passions, and motives grow.”

“There is much truth in what you say,” said I, “and yet no man ever acts upon this theory.  Who, when he makes a choice, says, Thus I choose, because I am necessitated?  Does he not on the contrary feel a freedom of will within him, which, though you may call it fallacious, still actuates him as he decides?”

“Exactly so,” replied Raymond, “another link of the breakless chain.  Were I now to commit an act which would annihilate my hopes, and pluck the regal garment from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary weeds, would this, think you, be an act of free-will on my part?”

As we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going the ordinary road to Windsor, but through Englefield Green, towards Bishopgate Heath.  I began to divine that Idris was not the object of our journey, but that I was brought to witness the scene that was to decide the fate of Raymond—­and of Perdita.  Raymond had evidently vacillated during his journey, and irresolution was marked in every gesture as we entered Perdita’s cottage.  I watched him curiously, determined that, if this hesitation should continue, I would assist Perdita to overcome herself, and teach her to disdain the wavering love of him, who balanced between the possession of a crown, and of her, whose excellence and affection transcended the worth of a kingdom.

We found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was reading the newspaper report of the debate in parliament, that apparently doomed her to hopelessness.  That heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk eyes and spiritless attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and frequent sighs were tokens of her distress.  This sight had an instantaneous effect on Raymond; his eyes beamed with tenderness, and remorse clothed his manners with earnestness and truth.  He sat beside her; and, taking the paper from her hand, said, “Not a word more shall my sweet Perdita read of this contention of madmen and fools.  I must not permit you to be acquainted with the extent of my delusion, lest you despise me; although, believe me, a wish to appear before you, not vanquished, but as a conqueror, inspired me during my wordy war.”