love.
It was not, then, in a momentary disgust, but rather in the calm of
satiety, that I formed that resolution of retirement which I have
adopted now.

Shrinking from my kind, but too young to live wholly for myself, I have
made a new tie with nature; I have come to cement it here. I am like
a bird which has wandered, afar, but has returned home to its nest at
last. But there is one feeling which had its origin in the world, and
which accompanies me still; which consecrates my recollections of the
past; which contributes to take its gloom from the solitude of the
present:-Do you ask me its nature, Monkton? It is my friendship for you.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I wish that I could convey to you, dear Monkton, the faintest idea of
the pleasures of indolence. You belong to that class which is of all the
most busy, though the least active. Men of pleasure never have time
for anything. No lawyer, no statesman, no bustling, hurrying, restless
underling of the counter or the Exchange, is so eternally occupied as a
lounger "about town." He is linked to labour by a series of undefinable
nothings. His independence and idleness only serve to fetter and engross
him, and his leisure seems held upon the condition of never having a
moment to himself. Would that you could see me at this instant in the
luxury of my summer retreat, surrounded by the trees, the waters, the
wild birds, and the hum, the glow, the exultation which teem visibly and
audibly through creation in the noon of a summer's day! I am undisturbed
by a single intruder. I am unoccupied by a single pursuit. I suffer one
moment to glide into another, without the remembrance that the next must
be filled up by some laborious pleasure, or some wearisome enjoyment.
It is here that I feel all the powers, and gather together all the
resources, of my mind. I recall my recollections of men; and, unbiassed
by the passions and prejudices which we do not experience alone, because
their very existence depends upon others, I endeavour to perfect my
knowledge of the human heart. He who would acquire that better science
must arrange and analyse in private the experience he has collected in
the crowd. Alas, Monkton, when you have expressed surprise at the gloom
which is so habitual to my temper, did it never occur to you that my
acquaintance--with the world would alone be sufficient to account for
it?--that knowledge is neither for the good nor the happy. Who can touch
pitch,