"How curious it is that in solitude all the things we have done amiss in life return upon the mind, distinct and clear--magnified even, if faults can be magnified--when in the pleasures, and the business, and the every-day cares of life, we forget them totally! And yet man was evidently meant for society. Is it that the ever-present consciousness of our errors in this mortal state, would be a burden too heavy to bear, were there not an alleviation in the thoughtful absorption of the world's concerns--a burden which even faith in a Saviour (as far as man's weakness will permit him to have faith) would not be sufficient to relieve, unless his worldly carelessness lightened the load, by deceiving him as to the weight? Perhaps it may be so; and yet, it is strange how often in this life, our weakness is our strength. Since I have been here, how reproachfully acts which I thought before perfectly venial have risen up in judgment against me I how dark have seemed many deeds committed! how sadly ungrateful many an omission has appeared! And shall not the same be the case hereafter? When a few hours of solitude are sufficient to draw back thus far the glittering veil which habit and the world cast over our faults, what will be the terrible sight when that veil is torn away altogether, and the dark array of a whole life's sins and follies stand naked and undisguised before us!--when the voice of conscience, fully awakened, never to sleep again, exclaims, 'Lo your own acts! The children of your mortal life! The witnesses against you for eternity!'" The above is an extract from a journal of Chandos Winslow, kept during his imprisonment. I know that such grave subjects are not palatable to most readers: they call them _longueurs_; they skip them; they want the story, nothing more. Let them do as they please; the extract was necessary to the depiction of the character. But I must show another side of it also--a somewhat lighter and more cheerful one; but still one which is as likely to be skipped as the other, by the mere novel-reader. For some time Chandos went on in the same strain of gloomy thought; and occasionally dark forebodings would mingle with the text: for the more he reflected upon the course he had determined to pursue, the more difficult, nay, hopeless, seemed to be the attempt to defend himself. At length, however, came the following passage:-- "But I will have no more of such reveries. It is very strange, that for the last four days I have not been able to read. The small space of my brain seems too much crowded with thoughts of my own, to give other people's thoughts admission. I will force myself to read, however; and think of what I read." Then came another passage, evidently after he had been reading for some time.