The pencil-mark might have been made by Sir Walter himself; but, whether it had been, or not, that personage was not now meditating, under the prompture of his own experience, on its high and incontrovertible philosophy. Before him was spread a large chart, representing, in rude but accurate outlines, the continent of North America; and on this he seemed to bend his undivided attention. Ever and anon, as his eye fixed itself on some more striking point of the broken shore, indicating a safe bay, or favourable commercial situation, he raised his pen, and, by a slight tick, marked it as the site of a future settlement. Gradually, breaking away from the shore, he moved his pen inland, and, after a deliberate pause, traced on the centre of the chart, in bold characters, these magic words:-- =_El Dorado._= As he thus fixed the site of his imagined Canaan, a smile rose to the lips of the philosopher, and seemed, on a cursory glance, to shed a sort of light over his every feature. There was, however, whether from intense thought, or secret anxiety, still a touch of melancholy on his brow; and it shortly spread itself further, and became, what it was in the first instance, the dominant expression of his countenance. Nevertheless, he continued to bend over the chart, and would, perhaps, ultimately have resumed the employment he had been engaged in; but, while he yet paused, a slight knock on the chamber-door brought his meditation to a close. “Enter!” he cried, turning towards the door. He had hardly turned round, when the door was pushed open, and a servant, attired in a plain but tasteful livery, the colours of his household, entered the chamber. “Sir Robert Cecil would speak a while with your worship,” said the lackey. It is often imagined, that, in the hour of adversity, a visit from one whom we consider a friend, unsolicited by ourselves, is among the most welcome things that we would aspire to. But let the cold hand of misfortune only seize us; and, in this conceived relief, the proud heart, which sorrow could not subdue, will be most effectually humbled. It has to own its fair prospects blighted; it has to acknowledge, in its own degradation, the superiority of its consoler; it has to smart under his inquiries, and writhe under his expressions of pity. What torture!--what excruciating torment! To be recommended, in our low estate, to take another path, to confess that we have failed--that our best efforts, our mightiest energies, our long suffering, our glorious and surpassing struggles, which embraced our every thought, hope, and wish, and the bare memory of which makes us even to commiserate our own selves--to confess that all these have been thrown away, that we have been poor, lost, thoughtless dreamers--oh! this is the very bound and extreme of human anguish!