lege punishment could ever move him, till eleven or twelve o'clock; so that he generally passed his time as a prisoner, under an arrear of impositions. No man deserved his name so well, for he spent the whole day in sauntering from one room to another, as if in search of what he could never find; " reminding us in this,' said Fothergill, "of what was observed of the old Duke of Newcastle, who, having lost an hour in the morning, seemed to be running after it all the rest of the day." With all this he was so good-natured and well-principled that everybody liked him, though esteem was often withheld, from the consequences of this his besetting sin.

"It was several years," said Fothergill in his manuscript, "after Sir Simeon had done with college, or rather college with him (for in truth he was rusticated for indolence, and never returned to us), before I saw him again; though he once did muster up exertion enough to write me a letter, telling me that to avoid the bustle of the world, for which at thirty he found he was unfit, he had retired to what he called a Sabine farm he had in the county of Surry.

When I did see him it was under most appropriate circumstances. It had been my custom, after having been a long time together engaged in tuition, to give myself little relaxations, by excursions to London or elsewhere, as humour or the season prompted. In one of these to the metropolis, after having made the tour of the theatres, concerts, and all other exhibitions, I had pretty nearly taken my fill of them, and began again to think of more serious employments, when one

morning, or rather afternoon, walking in the park, I beheld a man more than half asleep on one of the benches. By his dress he appeared a gentleman, and from his features, in which there was a remarkable quietness, though his eyes were closed, I thought I knew him; but when he waked and rose soon afterwards, the slouch in his walk assured me he could be no other than my old college acquaintance, Sir Simeon.

When I made myself known to him, he shewed as much pleasure as a man of his habitual immoveableness could do, and after mutual greetings and inquiries, I found he had as usual got tired of himself, and was under great difficulty to know how to dispose of his enemy, time.

"And yet," said I, "there is no want of means in this plaguy pleasant place, London; though the advance of the summer might beckon you to your Sabine farm

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"O! name it not," said he, " or if you do, call it by its right name, Monotony Hall. I fled from it for variety's sake, but am sorry to say the extreme of variety here is worse than the absence of it there."

"What think you," asked I," of a good long tour, at home or abroad, and afterwards publishing your journal ? You might disport yourself in first visiting, and then describing, either cities or deserts; things animate or inanimate; emperors, ministers, and beautiful duchesses; or rocks, rivers, and forests. This would force exertion-which is all you want."

"Exertion!" exclaimed he, "It is a consummation devoutly to

He could not even finish the line, but with a significant toss of his chin, and a long protracted yawn, gave me to understand it was a happiness beyond his power.

"For what could I propose to myself," said he, "in a tour, shut up in a close carriage, because I cannot bear an open one, or lounging in the cabin of a packetboat, because I get tired of the bustle upon deck? What could I derive from poring over a book of roads, or at best a view by others of the countries I came to visit myself? Then as to a journal of what I saw-delightful in the contemplation-impossible in the execution! I attempted it once, but was so occupied with the description, that I scarce ever saw what I was describing."

"Well, then,” said I, "if you cannot journalize what you see, record what you think. The record of a man's mind may be still more interesting than what

"Ah!" returned he, " I have tried that too, to relieve the flatness of solitude in my Sabine farm, as you call it, but soon grew so much ashamed of myself that I discontinued it. It was like Prince Darling's ring; it pricked my finger so, that I broke it all to pieces, and threw the fragments into the fire."

At this he seemed embarrassed, and even blushed, especially when I said, perhaps a little unfeelingly, "If this is the case, I am afraid I have no hope for

you."

To encourage him, however, I alluded to his professed love of literature, and asked him why he did not continue a resource so never-failing.

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Why, there again,” replied he, "I have the curse of indolence; a fortune just enough to indulge, but not enough to cure it. If I were again at school, and afraid of a flogging, I might again read. Afraid of nobody but myself, I am so extremely good-natured, or perhaps so little disposed to the trouble of correcting my faults, that I forgive them, and even, I fear, like them too well to part with them. However, do you know I am all the better for this confession? I feel roused by it, and had I such a friend as you always at my elbow, I really believe I might do something. For example, if you would come and see, or rather reside with me during a vacation, I might perhaps recover a taste for reading, and not let it evaporate as I do in newspapers and magazines; though they also are now so confoundedly deep and reflective, that it requires exertion to keep pace even with them. What say you to it ?" added he, brightening. "If your time is not engaged, will you accept my proposal, and go home with me to-morrow?"

"I might have many worse offers," answered I, though with hesitation.

"Then why not say yes?" added he, and the thought itself kindled something like activity in his countenance and manner.

I asked for time to consider; and promising him an answer the next day, we separated.

On my return home to my lodgings in the King's

Road, the nursery-gardens smelt and looked so sweet, and the daisies and lilacs seemed so much what they have been called, the lovely harbingers of spring, that they very much seconded the invitation of Sir Simeon. I had, in fact, had enough of liberty, and, perhaps, fearing I might grow too much like Sir Simeon himself, I resolved to accept his proposal.

He was overjoyed when I told him so; began that instant to pack up his trunks; and, spite of the remonstrances of John, his man-to whom, in general, to save trouble, I found he allowed a most absolute sway over his movements-he resolved we should set off the next day.

This John (whom in time I learned to call Saunter's governor, from his lecturing him pretty freely upon whatever did not please John himself), earnestly opposed his going home.

"You are never happy there," said he, "nor well neither I always say it does not suit you, though I cannot well tell what does-for you never shoot, you never go to sizes, nor even to races; and though so close to Brighton, you are afraid of meeting the prince, or the east wind. You lose money by farming; we can seldom get you on horseback, though you gave Lady Norton fifty guineas for her pad because she said it was too quiet for her; and you hate visitors like poison. I always say a country life does not suit you, and so this here gentleman, who has persuaded you to go back, will find when he gets to the Hermitage."

It was in vain I protested to Mr. John, that I had really no share in the movement; that it was his