arranged; on either side, as you left the dining-hall, were large trees
and groves of shrubs; behind and above the mansion was a garden of
moderate extent, but intersected by walks winding up the side of the
hill and bordered by flowers. At the top of the garden was a small
pavilion well suited for reading alone, or for conversation with a
single companion. Beyond the enclosure, and still ascending, were woods,
fields, other country-houses and gardens scattered on different
elevations. I lived there with my wife and my son Francis, who had just
reached his fifth year. My friends often came to visit me. In all that
surrounded me, there was nothing either rare or beautiful. It was nature
with her simplest ornaments, and family life in the most unpretending
tranquillity. But nothing was wanting. I had space, verdure, affection,
conversation, liberty, and employment,--the necessity of occupation,
that spur and bridle which human indolence and mutability so often
require. I was perfectly content. When the soul is calm, the heart full,
and the mind active, situations the most opposite to those we have been
accustomed to possess their charms, which speedily become happiness.

I sometimes went to Paris on affairs of business. I find, in a letter
which I wrote to Madame Guizot during one of these journeys, the
impressions I experienced. "At the first moment I feel pleasure at
mixing again and conversing with the world, but soon grow weary of
unprofitable words. There is no repetition more tiresome than that
which bears upon popular matters. We are eternally listening to what we
know already; we are perpetually telling others what they are as well
acquainted with as we are: this is, at the same time, insipid and
agitating. In my inaction, I prefer talking to the trees, the flowers,
the sun, and the wind. Man is infinitely superior to nature; but nature
is always equal, and inexhaustible in her monotony; we know that she
remains and must remain what she is; we never feel in her presence that
necessity of moving in advance, which makes us impatient or weary of the
society of men when they fail to satisfy this imperative demand. Who has
ever fancied that the trees ought to be red instead of green, or found
fault with the sun of today for resembling the sun of yesterday? We
demand of nature neither progress nor novelty; and this is why nature
draws us from the weariness of the world, while she brings repose from
its excitement. It is