and we are glad to lay the blame on any rather than ourselves; and lastly—for small misfortunes are harder to bear than great ones—we are impatient under the minor annoyances, inevitable in consequence. Marmion had not so much exhausted his love for Constance as that he was
"Weary to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turn, beseech, upbraid."
Years of misery and mortification had done their work: right and wrong were confounded together in the first instance. Constance could neither look forward nor back; she was forced to exist intensely in the present; and that is one of the worst punishments that guilt can know. Our youth is gone from us with all its kindliness, its innocent fondness, and its graceful amusements; memory can only
"———lead us back
In mournful mockery o'er the shining track
Of our young life, and point out every ray
Of hope and truth we've lost upon the way."
Our future is obscure and threatening; the eyes involuntarily turn away—they can see nothing but the phantom—more terrible for its indistinctness—of slow, but certain retribution. Remorse, unattended by repentance, always works for evil—it adds bitterness and anger to error. Such are the dark materials out of which the character of Constance is formed; we can trace its
