those which he spent at his work; his affections, repressed and
disappointed, became a source of misery to him.

"Is there nothing in this world to which I can attach myself?" said
Forester, as he one day leaned upon his spade in a melancholy mood. "Must
I spend my life in the midst of absurd altercations? Is it for this that
I have a heart and an understanding? No one here comprehends one word I
say--I am an object of contempt and hatred, whilst my soul is formed for
the most benevolent feelings, and capable of the most extensive views.
And of what service am I to my fellow-creatures? Even this stupid
gardener, even a common labourer, is as useful to society as I am.
Compared with Henry Campbell, what am I? Oh, Henry!--Flora!--could you
see me at this instant, you would pity me."

But the fear of being an object of pity wakened Forester's pride; and
though he felt that he was unhappy, he could not bear to acknowledge that
he had mistaken the road to happiness. His imaginary picture of rural
felicity was not, to be sure, realized; but he resolved to bear his
disappointment with fortitude, to fulfil his engagements with his master,
the gardener, and then to seek some other more eligible situation. In the
meantime, his benevolence tried to expand itself upon the only individual
in this family who treated him tolerably well: he grew fond of the old
gardener, because there was nothing else near him to which he could
attach himself, not even a dog or a cat. The old man, whose temper was
not quite so enthusiastical as Forester's, looked upon him as an
industrious simple young man, above the usual class of servants, and
rather wished to keep him in his service, because he gave him less than
the current wages. Forester, after his late reflections upon digging,
began to think, that, by applying his understanding to the business of
gardening, he might perhaps make some discoveries, which should excite