He was a man, who, with great powers of mind, had wasted his youth in a
wandering vagabond kind of life, but who had worn away the love of
pleasure, and began to awaken to a sense of ambition.

"It is astonishing how this city is improved," said he to himself.
"Everything gets on in this world with a little energy and bustle--and
everybody as well as everything. My old cronies, fellows not half so
clever as I am, are all doing well. There's Tom Stevens, my very fag at
Eton--snivelling little dog he was too!--just made under-secretary of
state. Pearson, whose longs and shorts I always wrote, is now
head-master to the human longs and shorts of a public school--editing
Greek plays, and booked for a bishopric. Collier, I see by the papers,
is leading his circuit--and Ernest Maltravers (but /he/ had some talent)
has made a name in the world. Here am I, worth them all put together,
who have done nothing but spend half my little fortune in spite of all
my economy. Egad, this must have an end. I must look to the main
chance; and yet, just when I want his help the most, my worthy uncle
thinks fit to marry again. Humph--I'm too good for this world."

While thus musing, the soliloquist came in direct personal contact with
a tall gentleman, who carried his head very high in the air, and did not
appear to see that he had nearly thrown our abstracted philosopher off
his legs.

"Zounds, sir, what do you mean?" cried the latter.

"I beg your par--" began the other, meekly, when his arm was seized, and
the injured man exclaimed, "Bless me, sir, is it indeed /you/ whom I
see?"