I felt a sort of pitying anguish over the pathos of my own lot:  the lot of a being finely organized for pain, but with hardly any fibres that responded to pleasure—­to whom the idea of future evil robbed the present of its joy, and for whom the idea of future good did not still the uneasiness of a present yearning or a present dread.  I went dumbly through that stage of the poet’s suffering, in which he feels the delicious pang of utterance, and makes an image of his sorrows.

I was left entirely without remonstrance concerning this dreamy wayward life:  I knew my father’s thought about me:  “That lad will never be good for anything in life:  he may waste his years in an insignificant way on the income that falls to him:  I shall not trouble myself about a career for him.”

One mild morning in the beginning of November, it happened that I was standing outside the portico patting lazy old Caesar, a Newfoundland almost blind with age, the only dog that ever took any notice of me—­for the very dogs shunned me, and fawned on the happier people about me—­when the groom brought up my brother’s horse which was to carry him to the hunt, and my brother himself appeared at the door, florid, broad-chested, and self-complacent, feeling what a good-natured fellow he was not to behave insolently to us all on the strength of his great advantages.

“Latimer, old boy,” he said to me in a tone of compassionate cordiality, “what a pity it is you don’t have a run with the hounds now and then!  The finest thing in the world for low spirits!”

“Low spirits!” I thought bitterly, as he rode away; “that is the sort of phrase with which coarse, narrow natures like yours think to describe experience of which you can know no more than your horse knows.  It is to such as you that the good of this world falls:  ready dulness, healthy selfishness, good-tempered conceit—­these are the keys to happiness.”

The quick thought came, that my selfishness was even stronger than his—­it was only a suffering selfishness instead of an enjoying one.  But then, again, my exasperating insight into Alfred’s self-complacent soul, his freedom from all the doubts and fears, the unsatisfied yearnings, the exquisite tortures of sensitiveness, that had made the web of my life, seemed to absolve me from all bonds towards him.  This man needed no pity, no love; those fine influences would have been as little felt by him as the delicate white mist is felt by the rock it caresses.  There was no evil in store for him:  if he was not to marry Bertha, it would be because he had found a lot pleasanter to himself.