EVERY THOUGHT IS A SOUL! Vainly, therefore, would I or thou undo the past, or restore to thee the gay blindness of thy youth.

Thou must endure the influence of the elixir thou hast inhaled; thou must wrestle with the spectre thou hast invoked!" The letter fell from Glyndon's hand.

A sort of stupor succeeded to the various emotions which had chased each other in the perusal,--a stupor resembling that which follows the sudden destruction of any ardent and long-nursed hope in the human heart, whether it be of love, of avarice, of ambition.

The loftier world for which he had so thirsted, sacrificed, and toiled, was closed upon him "forever," and by his own faults of rashness and presumption.

But Glyndon's was not of that nature which submits long to condemn itself.