The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. “My dad is into this stuff. Andrew's, the churchyard wall of St. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. That’s why I wanted your weapons. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. They are rather a long way off, but you could write to them. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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