changes--the sudden rise--the violent fall of men! Well may the player say, 'The spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.' They do, they do, what a spectacle for gods is man! The woman, sir this arrogant, this supercilious damsel, cradled in gold and satin, and bred in the glossy lap of luxury--died--rotted on a dunghill. Her father gained his nobleman--she, a paramour. She eloped with a marquis, who deserted her. She returned to her home, and found it shut against her. She who had feasted upon the choice morsels of abundance, must, like me, commit crime for a loaf of bread. She is carried abroad by a new protector, and strangers bear her to a pauper's grave. This was her fate, sir. But to return. In consequence of the refusal, a coolness arose between the partners. An angry word or two took place--a taunt--something too galling for my father's pride was spoken, and there was a separation. My father then commenced business on his own foundation--it is hardly necessary for me to say with success. He could not but prosper. To fail whilst reason was left him was impossibility. He soon married. His wife--my mother--was the daughter of a rich merchant. You know the name, sir. Her brother, my uncle, bears the same. I told it you just now. There could not have been a more unfortunate union. My father was full of feeling and noble impulses, intelligent, active, passionate, and required, if not his own qualities in a partner, at least a milder reflex of himself--a woman that could appreciate his nature, encourage, help, support him; a woman, in a word, with a heart and mind, and both devoted. My mother, unfortunately for her, for all, had no sympathy for her husband--had nothing to offer him but the portion which she brought, and the hand which her father bade her give. She was a cold--must I say it?--unfeeling woman, with little thought beyond herself, her apparel, and her pleasures. I hope, sir, I shall make you understand me. It is hard to speak disparagingly of her who gave me life. Let me be careful that I do her justice. _I_ bring against her no charge of vice. I believe her _not_ vicious. I ever considered her too weak to be so. I would have you imagine a woman apathetic and characterless; her mental powers just equal to providing her with a becoming garment; her feelings capable, perhaps, of their full expansion if a stranger moved them with some hollow compliment upon her good taste, or, easier still, her beauty--for she was not without this dangerous gift--a lovely image, sir. I have myself, as a boy, often seen a radiance upon her countenance at such a season, when the pretty gambols of my infant sister has failed to draw one smile of approbation. The little sensibility she had waited on a paltry vanity. I may say with truth, that her children caused her no pain. By a fortunate physical constitution, she bore the burden of a mother without the pangs that usually attend a mother's state.