future, are not inquired into and divined; but I own I shall deem myself
worse than inconsistent. For this is my dilemma,--if I use this noble
spirit merely to advance one object, and then desert him where he halts,
I am treacherous to him; if I halt with him, but one of my objects
effected, I am treacherous to myself. Such are my views. It is with
pain I arrive at them, for, at first, my heart beat with a selfish
ambition."

"You are right, you are right," exclaimed Florence, with glowing cheeks;
"how could I doubt you? I comprehend the sacrifice you make; for a
proud thing is it to soar above the predictions of foes in that palpable
road to honour which the world's hard eyes can see, and the world's cold
heart can measure; but prouder is it to feel that you have never
advanced one step to the goal, which remembrance would retract. No, my
friend, wait your time, confident that it must come, when conscience and
ambition can go hand-in-hand--when the broad objects of a luminous and
enlarged policy lie before you like a chart, and you can calculate every
step of the way without peril of being lost. Ah, let them still call
loftiness of purpose and whiteness of soul the dreams of a
theorist,--even if they be so, the Ideal in this case is better than the
Practical. Meanwhile your position is not one to forfeit lightly.
Before you is that throne in literature which it requires no doubtful
step to win, if you have, as I believe, the mental power to attain it.
An ambition that may indeed be relinquished, if a more troubled career
can better achieve those public purposes at which both letters and
policy should aim, but which is not to be surrendered for the rewards of
a place-man, or the advancement of a courtier."

It was while uttering these noble and inspiring sentiments, that
Florence Lascelles suddenly acquired in Ernest's eyes a loveliness with