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the most engaging frankness united with sense and decision of character; so that Raeburn (for he was Scotch) had never painted any thing more imposing. I was somewhat moved myself at the emotion he shewed when he said this, and it prompted me to ask whose portrait it was.
• You could not have known him," replied he, “ for he must have died soon after you were born, and besides that, spent his last years upon his paternal estate in Scotland, where he dealt out kindness and help to all who wanted it, and devoted himself to the training up of a numerous and accomplished family to the same virtues as adorned himself. Yes; he was, what I have called him, my earliest and best-loved friend. At school we were inseparable.”
I felt a kind of shudder at this intimation, for I thought of Foljambe-with what recollections may be supposed—and rather hastily asked, if the world, after school-days were over, allowed them to continue that happy friendship ?
I know not whether I was agitated when I asked this; but eyeing me seriously, though kindly, he cried, “ Is it even so ? Is the world known to you in these respects so soon? Have you already set your heart
you thought a kindred heart, and lost it? Have you so soon been disappointed ? But pardon me, if I am rude, I have no right—”
He was here a little embarrassed, but soon recovered, and said,
“In reply to your question, the world never made a difference, except to separate our persons; our hearts
remained always the same, for Sir M. S. St(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 ori . ginal of this picture seems to have been born, as the picture itself seems to have been painted,
• To give the world assurance of a man.'”
OF THE FINE THINGS WHICH PASSED BETWEEN DE
CLIFFORD AND MR. MANNERS ON THE SUBJECT OF
Now I see the mystery of your loneliness.
SAAKSPEARE.-Al'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
“ And yet, if I may take the liberty of remarking it," said I, “ I understand you shun company." "
“Flat and common-place, I do."
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
* No. 15.