remained always the same, for Sir M. S. St-t (and he here named a very ancient baronet of Scotland) was as constant in his friendships, as in all other good graces that grace a gentleman. In fact, the original of this picture seems to have been born, as the picture itself seems to have been painted,

CHAPTER XXIII.

OF THE FINE THINGS WHICH PASSED BETWEEN DE CLIFFORD AND MR. MANNERS ON THE SUBJECT OF SOLITUDE.

Now I see the mystery of your loneliness.

SHAKSPEARE.-All's Well that Ends Well.

THE conversation related in the last chapter ceased for a while; for my kind and sensitive host fell into a reverie upon the last subject, from which, being myself moved by the thought of a very different friendship, I did not seek to disturb him. Such meditation upon the departed dead I held to be sacred, and I cast my eyes upon his books, until he should return to himself.

A few minutes restored him, and he found me turning over the leaves of Zimmerman, misleader of poor Rycroft, whom it forced to walk ten miles a-day to remedy the mischief it had done him.

" I presume this is a favourite of yours?" said I, seeing him quite again in the disposition to converse. "He is too great an enthusiast," replied he, "for mere sober reason to follow. It requires a highwrought imagination, like his own, to be affected by

him; some youthful poet, when in love, perhaps like yourself; some disappointed or fallen Wolsey, whose ' robe and integrity to heaven is all he has left ;' or some Timon, whose wealth, though scattered like water, could not secure him one single friend : - these are they who may devour the pages of the German, and feed their own feelings with his warm romance. Nor are they altogether without attraction. But let no man of common mould, or every-day character, think he will here find the truth of things. As a relaxation, when the bow is too much bent, temporary solitude is delightful - as a permanent position, without object, it is vapid. Like bed, a relief from fatigue or illness; but what should we say to a man who, without a cause, lies a-bed all day?"

"And yet, if I may take the liberty of remarking it," said I, " I understand you shun company."

" Flat and common-place, I do."

"Can none of your neighbours please you ?" "Vew few."

" May I ask, why?"

"Because they are flat and common-place."

I felt answered; but observed, "You, however, do read Zimmerman."

"As a votary of solitude myself, though of a far different temper, I sometimes look into him, as into other men of genius: but I am quite content with my own practical jog-trot notions, which have withdrawn me from certain scenes of the world, which had ceased to interest me, and for no other reason. I pretend not, therefore, to any such dignified seclusion as is, perhaps, attributed to me; I have neither particular disgusts nor particular refinements. I however defer to every word on the subject to be found in a delightful book, still golden, as it ought to be, in every thinking or classical mind, though, to the disgrace of the age, falling fast into neglect among those coxcombs who think there can be a fashion in sterling literature."

With that he took down a volume of the Spectator, and made me read from a paper by Addison, as follows:

"True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise; it arises, in the first place, from the enjoyment of one's self; and in the next, from the friendship and conversation of a few select companions: it loves shade and solitude, and naturally haunts groves and fountains, fields and meadows: in short, it feels every thing that it wants within itself, and receives no addition from multitudes of witnesses and spectators. On the contrary, false happiness loves to be in a crowd, and to draw the eyes of the world pon her. She does not receive any satisfaction from the applauses which she gives herself, but from the admiration which she raises in others. She flourishes in courts and palaces, theatres and assemblies, and has no existence but when she is looked upon."*

" I also feel every word of this," said I, "and have often exclaimed, in the walk at Maudlin, planted by him who wrote it,

'O! lost to virtue! lost to manly thought
Who think it solitude to be alone!'

But, if the truth were known, this was perhaps owing more to laziness, and thinking company too often annoying, than any sentimental finery elevating me above my fellows."

"I am certainly not one of those who think any company better than none," observed Mr. Manners. "Even in town, I have felt myself alone, only without the freedom and independence of being so; for I agree in the opinion of, I think, Seneca- Magna civitas, magna solitudo;' and certainly incline to that of Bacon, Crowds are not company; faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.'

"It was because I had had too much of this gallery, and tinkling cymbal, without the love, that I thought I would try my fate here, where they would not interrupt me, nor I them. For I fully admit that an old man, who has lost his powers of amusing or interesting, has no right to be welcomed by the world; so you see I am not one of those coxcombs or affected hermits who retire because, as they say, the world has used them ill. I did not affect to be either Bolingbroke or Rousseau."

"I think you are the very genius of good sense," said I, "which neither of those two were; yet, if you will forgive me, with a spice of the melancholy Jacques."