It only concerned myself.
By-and-by, after a long interview, in which I laid all my troubles before these comforters, the vicar asked me what I thought of doing.
"I shall go away,"-- I said.--"I have exhausted London .-- `I have lived and loved,' as Theckla says; and there is no hope of my getting on here! I would think that everybody would recall my past life, whenever they saw me, and throw it all back in my teeth." "But, you can live all that down, my boy," said the vicar.--"The world is not half so censorious as you think now, in your awakening; and, remember, Frank, what Shakspeare says, `There is no time so miserable, but a man may be true!'" "Besides," I went on,--"I want change of scene.

All these old places would recall the past.

I could never be happy here again." "Well, well, my boy!" he answered sadly.

"But, we shall be sorry to lose you, Frank, all the same, although it may be for your good." I had thought of America already, and told him that I intended going there.

Not from any wide-seated admiration of the Great Republic and its citizens; but, from its being a place within easy reach--where I might separate myself entirely from all that would recall home thoughts and home associations:--so I then believed.
"I shall go there," I said, bitterly.--"At all events, I shall be unknown; and, can bury myself and my misery--a fitting end to a bad life!" "My boy, my boy!"-- said the vicar, with emotion.--"It grieves me to the heart to hear you speak so.