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Tyrrel and
himself from proceeding to extremities; but in vain! It was closed with
a catastrophe, exceeding all that he had feared, or that the most
penetrating foresight could have suggested. To Mr. Falkland disgrace was
worse than death. The slightest breath of dishonour would have stung him
to the very soul. What must it have been with this complication of
ignominy, base, humiliating, and public? Could Mr. Tyrrel have
understood the evil he inflicted, even he, under all his circumstances
of provocation, could scarcely have perpetrated it. Mr. Falkland's mind
was full of uproar like the war of contending elements, and of such
suffering as casts contempt on the refinements of inventive cruelty. He
wished for annihilation, to lie down in eternal oblivion, in an
insensibility, which, compared with what he experienced, was scarcely
less enviable than beatitude itself. Horror, detestation, revenge,
inexpressible longings to shake off the evil, and a persuasion that in
this case all effort was powerless, filled his soul even to bursting.


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