He sat down and fell into a reverie, which perhaps was partly suggested by
that chief furrow which he had seen, and which we have spoken of, in his
brow. He considered whether there was anything in this pursuit of his that
used up life particularly fast; so that, perhaps, unless he were
successful soon, he should be incapable of renewal; for, looking within
himself, and considering his mode of being, he had a singular fancy that
his heart was gradually drying up, and that he must continue to get some
moisture for it, or else it would soon be like a withered leaf. Supposing
his pursuit were vain, what a waste he was making of that little treasure
of golden days, which was his all! Could this be called life, which he was
leading now? How unlike that of other young men! How unlike that of Robert
Hagburn, for example! There had come news yesterday of his having
performed a gallant part in the battle of Monmouth, and being promoted to
be a captain for his brave conduct. Without thinking of long life, he
really lived in heroic actions and emotions; he got much life in a little,
and did not fear to sacrifice a lifetime of torpid breaths, if necessary,
to the ecstasy of a glorious death!

[_It appears from a written sketch by the author of this story, that he
changed his first plan of making Septimius and Rose lovers, and she was to
be represented as his half-sister, and in the copy for publication this
alteration would have been made_.--ED.]

And then Robert loved, too, loved his sister Rose, and felt, doubtless, an
immortality in that passion. Why could not Septimius love too? It was
forbidden! Well, no matter; whom could he have loved? Who, in all this
world would have been suited to his secret, brooding heart, that he could
have let her into its mysterious chambers, and walked with her from one
cavernous gloom to another, and said, "Here are my treasures. I make thee
mistress of all these; with all these goods I thee endow." And then,