had a campaign, in which he had been robbed of every thing, from his slippers to his cimeter—and had returned home, leaving behind his classical enthusiasm, and bringing back with him an ague. He took up the Gazetteer in desperation for a Sortes, and laid it down delighted and decided: next day he set off for Norway.
In his mind the imagination was as yet the most prominent feature; it made him impetuous—for the unknown is ever coloured by the most attractive hues; it made him versatile—for those very hues, from their falsehood, are fleeting, and pass easily from one object to another; it made him melancholy—for the imagination, which lives on excitement, most powerfully exaggerates the reaction; but, like a fairy gift, it threw its own nameless charm over all he did—and a touch, as it were, of poetry, spiritualised all the common-places of life. His was a character full of great and glorious elements, but dangerous; so alive to external impressions, so full of self-deceit—for what deceives us as we deceive ourselves? To what might not some dazzling dream of honour or of love lead? It was one that required to be subdued by time, checked by obstacles, and
