was so universal that, without the least affectation, I acknowledge there must be something repellent in me, but what it is I cannot tell.  That Ellen was the cause of the general aversion, it is impossible to believe.  The only theory I have is, that partly owing to a constant sense of fatigue, due to imperfect health, and partly to chafing irritation at mere gossip, although I had no power to think of anything better, or say anything better myself, I was avoided both by the commonplace and those who had talent.  Commonplace persons avoided me because I did not chatter, and persons of talent because I stood for nothing.  “There was nothing in me.”  We met at M’Kay’s two gentlemen whom we thought we might invite to our house.  One of them was an antiquarian.  He had discovered in an excavation in London some Roman remains.  This had led him on to the study of the position and boundaries of the Roman city.  He had become an authority upon this subject, and had lectured upon it.  He came; but as we were utterly ignorant, and could not, with all our efforts, manifest any sympathy which he valued at the worth of a pin, he soon departed, and departed for ever.  The second was a student of Elizabethan literature, and I rashly concluded at once that he must be most delightful.  He likewise came.  I showed him my few poor books, which he condemned, and I found that such observations as I could make he considered as mere twaddle.  I knew nothing, or next to nothing, about the editions or the curiosities, or the proposed emendations of obscure passages, and he, too, departed abruptly.  I began to think after he had gone that my study of Shakespeare was mere dilettantism but I afterwards came to the conclusion that if a man wishes to spoil himself for Shakespeare, the best thing he can do is to turn Shakespearian critic.

My worst enemy at this time was ill health, and it was more distressing than it otherwise would have been, because I had such responsibilities upon me.  When I lived alone I knew that if anything should happen to me it would be of no particular consequence, but now whenever I felt sick I was anxious on account of Ellen.  What would become of her—­this was the thought which kept me awake night after night when the terrors of depression were upon me, as they often were.  But still, terrors with growing years had lost their ancient strength.  My brain and nerves were quiet compared with what they were in times gone by, and I had gradually learned the blessed lesson which is taught by familiarity with sorrow, that the greater part of what is dreadful in it lies in the imagination.  The true Gorgon head is seldom seen in reality.  That it exists I do not doubt, but it is not so commonly visible as we think.  Again, as we get older we find that all life is given us on conditions of uncertainty, and yet we walk courageously on.  The labourer marries and has children, when there is nothing but his own strength between him and