A disappointed man looks with great interest at the man who has obtained what he himself wanted.  Your mother, reader, says that her ambition for you would be entirely gratified if you could but reach a certain place which some one you know has held for twenty years.  You look at him with much curiosity; he appears very much like yourself; and, curiously, he does not appear particularly happy.  Oh, reader, whatever you do—­though last week he gained without an effort what you have been wishing for all your life—­do not hate him.  Resolve that you will love and wish well to the man who fairly succeeded where you fairly failed.  Go to him and get acquainted with him:  if you and he are both true men, you will not find it a difficult task to like him.  It is perhaps asking too much of human nature to ask you to do all this in the case of the man who has carried off the woman you loved; but as regards anything else, do it all.  Go to your successful rival, heartily congratulate him.  Don’t be Jesuitical; don’t merely felicitate the man; put down the rising feeling of envy:  that is always out-and-out wrong.  Don’t give it a moment’s quarter.  You clerks in an office, ready to be angry with a fellow-clerk who gets the chance of a trip to Scotland on business, don’t give in to the feeling.  Shake hands with him all round, and go in a body with him to Euston Square, and give him three cheers as he departs by the night mail.  And you, greater mortals—­you, rector of a beautiful parish, who think you would have done for a bishop as well as the clergyman next you who has got the mitre; you, clever barrister, sure some day to be solicitor-general, though sore to-day because a man next door has got that coveted post before you; go and see the successful man—­go forthwith, congratulate him heartily, say frankly you wish it had been you:  it will do oreat good both to him and to yourself.  Let it not be that envy—­that bitter and fast-growing fiend—­shall be suffered in your heart for one minute.  When I was at college I sat on the same bench with a certain man.  We were about the same age.  Now, I am a country parson, and he is a cabinet minister.  Oh, how he has distanced poor me in the race of life!  Well, he had a tremendous start, no doubt.  Now, shall I hate him?  Shall I pitch into him, rake up all his errors of youth, tell how stupid he was (though indeed he was not stupid), and bitterly gloat over the occasion on which he fell on the ice and tore his inexpressibles in the presence of a grinning throng?  No, my old fellow-student, who hast now doubtless forgotten my name, though I so well remember yours, though you got your honours possibly in some measure from the accident of your birth, you have nobly justified their being given you so early; and so I look on with interest to your loftier advancement yet, and I say—­God bless you!