endured, and yet I could not utter a word. Why could not I speak the
expostulations of my heart, or propose the compromise I meditated? It
was inexperience, and not want of strength, that awed me. Every act of
Mr. Falkland contained something new, and I was unprepared to meet it.
Perhaps it will be found that the greatest hero owes the propriety of
his conduct to the habit of encountering difficulties, and calling out
with promptness the energies of his mind.

I contemplated the proceedings of my patron with the deepest
astonishment. Humanity and general kindness were fundamental parts of
his character; but in relation to me they were sterile and inactive. His
own interest required that he should purchase my kindness; but he
preferred to govern me by terror, and watch me with unceasing anxiety. I
ruminated with the most mournful sensations upon the nature of my
calamity. I believed that no human being was ever placed in a situation
so pitiable as mine. Every atom of my frame seemed to have a several
existence, and to crawl within me. I had but too much reason to believe
that Mr. Falkland's threats were not empty words. I knew his ability; I
felt his ascendancy. If I encountered him, what chance had I of victory?
If I were defeated, what was the penalty I had to suffer? Well then, the
rest of my life must be devoted to slavish subjection. Miserable
sentence! And, if it were, what security had I against the injustice of
a man, vigilant, capricious, and criminal? I envied the condemned wretch
upon the scaffold; I envied the victim of the inquisition in the midst
of his torture. They know what they have to suffer. I had only to
imagine every thing terrible, and then say, "The fate reserved for me
is worse than this!"

It was well for me that these sensations were transient: human nature
could not long support itself under what I then felt. By degrees my mind