fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering
woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an
interesting situation through the same long period, and has never
been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has
never cared for himself; HE could have perished - he would rather,
in short - but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband,
and a father, - to write begging letters when he looked at her?
(He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an
answer to this question.)

He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his
brother has done to him would have broken anybody else's heart.
His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the
money; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum and
left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment to
the tune of hundreds a-year, if he would have consented to write
letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated principles incompatible
with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit
his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a
spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don't
know, but he has never taken it out. The broker's man has grown
grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day.

He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in
the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with
the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description
and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he
has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote
Latin in his letters (but generally misspells some minor English
word); he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging, better