all.

Carriages, horses, grooms, and servants were at his command. Books,
pictures, and engravings were at hand to interest him. The daily and
the weekly papers, and the periodicals, brought to his table all the
news of the great world, and his friends and his acquaintances paid
him homage. How happy must the man be who has all this!

_He_ was not happy. He had no aim, no motive. The zest with which he
read the papers when he was a merchant, he had lost now he had ceased
to be engaged in commerce. A storm, a fleet, a pestilence along the
Mediterranean shores, was full of interest to him before, because he
had investments there. Now, they were of no consequence to him. The
views and aims of government were watched by him before with searching
scrutiny, because his destiny was bound up with theirs. The
parliamentary debates were of the greatest consequence before, as
indicating British policy; but that to him now ceased to be an object
of importance. His fortune was achieved, his course was run, his
destiny fulfilled.

Soon, every thing and place appeared to him one uniform and universal
blank. His beautiful apartments were unused, his carriage and horses
unemployed, his books unread, his papers unopened, his meals untasted,
and his clothes unworn. He had lost all enjoyment of life, and
contemplated suicide.

Saturday night arrived, and he resolved on Sunday morning early,
before the busy populace were stirring, he would make his way to
Waterloo bridge and jump into the river, or tumble off.