not that he himself is a disappointed man. No; he has to confess,
with deep thankfulness, that his success has far, very far,
transcended his deserts. And, like many other men, he has found
that one or two events in his life, which seemed disappointments
at the time, were in truth great and signal blessings. Still, every
one has known enough of the blank, desolate feeling of disappointment,
to sympathize keenly with the disappointments of others. I feel
deeply for the poor Punch and Judy man, simulating great excitement
in the presence of a small, uninterested group, from which people
keep dropping away. I feel for the poor barn-actor, who discovers,
on his first entrance upon his rude stage, that the magnates of
the district, who promised to be present at the performance, have
not come. You have gone to see a panorama, or to hear a lecture on
phrenology. Did you not feel for the poor fellow, the lecturer or
exhibitor, when ne came in ten minutes past the hour, and found
little but empty benches? Did you not see what a chill fell upon
him: how stupified he seemed: in short, how much disappointed he
was? And if the money he had hoped to earn that evening was to pay
the lodgings in which he and his wife were staying, you may be sure
there was a heart sickness about his disappointment far beyond the
mortification of mere self-love. When a rainy day stops a pic-nic,
or mars the enjoyment of it, although the disappointment is hardly
a serious one, still it is sure to cause so much real suffering,
that only rancorous old ladies will rejoice in the fact. It is
curious how men who have known disappointment themselves, and who
describe it well, seem to like to paint lives which in the meantime are
all hope and success. There is Mr. Thackeray. With what sympathy,
with what enjoyment, he shows us the healthy, wealthy, hopeful
youths, like Clive Newcome, or young Pendennis, when it was all
sunshine around the young prince! And yet how sad a picture of