I am certain I was quite right in parting with that girl. Any
respectable man, a father of a family, would have applauded me for
severing this dangerous connection. What could come of such association
except unhappiness? “Potts,” would the biographer say,--“Potts saw, with
the unerring instinct of his quick perception, that this young creature
would one day or other have laid at his feet the burnt-offering of her
heart, and then, what could he have done? If Potts had been less endowed
with genius, or less armed in honesty, he had not anticipated this
peril, or, foreseeing, bad undervalued it. But he both saw and feared
it. How very differently had a libertine reasoned out this situation!”
And then I thought how wicked I might have been,--a monster of crime
and atrocity. Every one knows the sensation of lying snugly a-bed on a
stormy night, and, as the rain plashes and the wind howls, drawing more
closely around him the coverlet, and the selfish satisfaction of his own
comfort, heightened by all the possible hardships of others outside. In
the same benevolent spirit, but not by any means so reprehensible, is it
pleasant to imagine oneself a great criminal, standing in the dock, to
be stared at by a horror-struck public, photographed, shaved, prison
costumed, exhorted, sentenced, and tien, just as the last hammer has
driven the last nail into the scaffold, and the great bell has tolled
out, to find that you are sitting by your wood fire, with your curtain
drawn, your uncut volume beside you, and your peculiar weakness, be it
tea, or sherry-cobbler, at your elbow. I constantly take a “rise” out
of myself in this fashion, and rarely a week goes over that I have not
either poisoned a sister or had a shot at the Queen. It is a sort
of intellectual Russian bath, in which the luxury consists in the
exaggerated alternative between being scalded first and rolled in the
snow afterwards. It was in this figurative snow I was now disporting
myself, pleasantly and refreshingly, and yet remorse, like a sturdy dun,
stood at my gate, and refused to go away.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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