seemed to crush down my aching forehead, till the thunderstorm
burst, and peace was restored to my troubled soul.'

This was very bad; but to do justice to Lancelot, he had grown out
of it at the time when my story begins. He was now in the fifth act
of his 'Werterean' stage; that sentimental measles, which all clever
men must catch once in their lives, and which, generally, like the
physical measles, if taken early, settles their constitution for
good or evil; if taken late, goes far towards killing them.
Lancelot had found Byron and Shelley pall on his taste and commenced
devouring Bulwer and worshipping Ernest Maltravers. He had left
Bulwer for old ballads and romances, and Mr. Carlyle's reviews; was
next alternately chivalry-mad; and Germany-mad; was now reading hard
at physical science; and on the whole, trying to become a great man,
without any very clear notion of what a great man ought to be. Real
education he never had had. Bred up at home under his father, a
rich merchant, he had gone to college with a large stock of general
information, and a particular mania for dried plants, fossils,
butterflies, and sketching, and some such creed as this:--

That he was very clever.

That he ought to make his fortune.

That a great many things were very pleasant--beautiful things among
the rest.

That it was a fine thing to be 'superior,' gentleman-like, generous,
and courageous.