His life was passed in a storm of mean passions and bitter jealousies, and desperate attacks upon the indifference-rock of Mrs.
Catherine's heart, which not all his tempest of love could beat down.

O cruel cruel pangs of love unrequited! Mean rogues feel them as well as great heroes.

Lives there the man in Europe who has not felt them many times ?--who has not knelt, and fawned, and supplicated, and wept, and cursed, and raved, all in vain; and passed long wakeful nights with ghosts of dead hopes for company; shadows of buried remembrances that glide out of their graves of nights, and whisper, "We are dead now, but we WERE once; and we made you happy, and we come now to mock you:--despair, O lover, despair, and die" ?--O cruel pangs!--dismal nights!--Now a sly demon creeps under your nightcap, and drops into your ear those soft hope-breathing sweet words, uttered on the well-remembered evening: there, in the drawer of your dressing-table (along with the razors, and Macassar oil), lies the dead flower that Lady Amelia Wilhelmina wore in her bosom on the night of a certain ball--the corpse of a glorious hope that seemed once as if it would live for ever, so strong was it, so full of joy and sunshine: there, in your writing-desk, among a crowd of unpaid bills, is the dirty scrap of paper, thimble-sealed, which came in company with a pair of muffetees of her knitting (she was a butcher's daughter, and did all she could, poor thing!), begging "you would ware them at collidge, and think of her who"-- married a public-house three weeks afterwards, and cares for you no more now than she does for the pot-boy.

But why multiply instances, or seek to depict the agony of poor mean-spirited John Hayes?
No mistake can be greater than that of fancying such great emotions of love are only felt by virtuous or exalted men: depend upon it, Love, like Death, plays havoc among the pauperum tabernas, and sports with rich and poor, wicked and virtuous, alike.

I have often fancied, for instance, on seeing the haggard pale young old-clothesman, who wakes the echoes of our street with his nasal cry of "Clo'!"-- I have often, I said, fancied that, besides the load of exuvial coats and breeches under which he staggers, there is another weight on him--an atrior cura at his tail--and while his unshorn lips and nose together are performing that mocking, boisterous, Jack-indifferent cry of "Clo', clo'!" who knows what woeful utterances are crying from the heart within?
There he is, chaffering with the footman at No.