six and seven thousand volumes. My seraglio was
ample, my choice was free, my appetite was keen. After a full repast on
Homer and Aristophanes, I involved myself in the philosophic maze of the
writings of Plato, of which the dramatic is, perhaps, more interesting
than the argumentative part: but I stepped aside into every path of
inquiry which reading or reflection accidentally opened.

Alas! the joy of my return, and my studious ardour, were soon damped by
the melancholy state of my friend Mr. Deyverdun. His health and spirits
had long suffered a gradual decline, a succession of apoplectic fits
announced his dissolution; and before he expired, those who loved him
could not wish for the continuance of his life. The voice of reason
might congratulate his deliverance, but the feelings of nature and
friendship could be subdued only by time: his amiable character was
still alive in my remembrance; each room, each walk, was imprinted with
our common footsteps; and I should blush at my own philosophy, if a long
interval of study had not preceded and followed the death of my friend.
By his last will he left to me the option of purchasing his house and
garden, or of possessing them during my life, on the payment either of
a stipulated price, or of an easy retribution to his kinsman and heir.
I should probably have been tempted by the daemon of property, if some
legal difficulties had not been started against my title; a contest
would have been vexatious, doubtful, and invidious; and the heir most
gratefully subscribed an agreement, which rendered my life-possession
more perfect, and his future condition more advantageous. Yet I had
often revolved the judicious lines in which Pope answers the objections
of his longsighted friend:

Pity to build without or child or wife;
Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life
Well, if the use be mine, does it concern one,
Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?

The certainty of my tenure has allowed me to lay out a considerable sum
in improvements and alterations: they have been executed with skill
and taste; and few men of letters, perhaps, in Europe, are so desirably
lodged as myself. But I feel, and with the decline of years I shall
more painfully feel, that I am alone in Paradise. Among the circle of my
acquaintance at Lausanne, I have gradually acquired the solid and tender
friendship of a respectable family, the family of de Severy: the four