Scene + 

XII + 

Turnstile’s Parlour. Night. Turnstile alone. + 

Turnstile. + 

Then all is up. What a fool have I been to embark upon this sea of trouble! Two years of trifling and lost time; while others have been making discoveries and adding to their reputation. Those rascal Whigs, my blood boils to think of them. I can forgive the Shoreditch people⁠—the greasy, vulgar, money-getting beasts;⁠—but my friends, the men of principle⁠—Getting up and walking about. + 

Is it still too late to return? Looking round upon his books and instruments. There you are, my old friends, whom I have treated rather ungratefully. What a scene at that cursed meeting! Highway’s bullying; and the baseness of Smooth; the sleek, sly, steering of that knave MacLeech; and yet they must succeed. There’s no help for it. I am fairly beaten⁠—thrown overboard, with not a leg to stand upon; and all I have to do is to go to bed now, to sleep off this fever; and tomorrow, take leave of politics, and try to be myself once more. + 