long to him! why did he not accept his patron the Duke's offer? or if he chose to quarrel with his benefactor, why kill himself? Why not go abroad, where, in some provincial mimic capital, he might live and exhibit finery for a hundred a year?

Such were the just, delicate and generous reflections, prompted by the voluntary death of a man who, but a week before, had not ceased to be courted by those who were the first to make them. The Duke, however, was sorry for three whole days; during one of which he seemed to think it necessary to put himself in the right in regard to his conduct. But as nobody presumed to arraign it, and he found he was not blamed, he tranquilly dismissed the unpleasant subject from his mind. "Vogue la galère," seemed every one's motto; and the name of Fawknor was, in one little week, scarcely remembered, never mentioned.

Notwithstanding the catastrophe I have described, the opinion I had imbibed, of the preponderancy of happiness over misery in the world, was not hroken in upon.

"If plagues or earthquakes break not heaven's design,
Why should a Borgia or a Catiline?"

Every man does not make a false step, and few kill themselves; but most die honestly in their beds, however they may have lived. How they may have lived, is the question; and as far as my inquiry could ascertain, I am bound to say that, though the quantity of pure and unmixed happiness is very small, yet so is unmixed misery. It is the balance of reasonable content over discontent, which is the true question, and upon this I have no hesitation, upon the authority of my tour, to decide.

I think I left myself at Welbourne, the sojourn of a man who seemed to me to understand in perfection the system of what he professed-ease. He allowed it was often negative; but then he held, and almost proved, that the most certain and permanent happiness was the negation of its contrary, rather than positive enjoyment. Accordingly, absence from care was his abstract defi

VOL. II.-5

nition of happiness; and, unlike most others, excitement was on all occasions what he was most studious to avoid. Not to covet with eagerness, so as to feel uneasy, was his chief, if not his only secret. A stranger to love, he had not its felicity, but he also had not its agony. Not being a politician, he shared not the politician's triumphs, but was also free from his mortifications. Not being a soldier, he aspired after no glory; not being a miser, he coveted no wealth. Fond of natural pleasures, he was content with their simplicity; and a devotee of freedom, he hated the trammels of fashion. It may be justly said of him, that he was free from all great vices, and had therefore none of their cares. He envied no man; hankered after nothing; and, guarded by moderation, enjoyed everything. He lived alone, because it pleased him; went into the world when it pleased him; and returned to solitude when the world pleased him no longer. His happiness might be summed up in two predicates-natural cheerfulness, and blamelessness of conduct: if we ought not to add two more-sufficiency for his wants, and the blessing of health.

Such was one of the happiest persons, I think, I ever knew, unless Heartfree might be said to rank with. him. The difference between them was, that Blythfield had lived more in the world, and had derived more from general literature. The society of both was limited from choice; but Heartfree's, from position, was sui generis; Blythfield's, from his family connexions, took a higher range.

SECTION XXI.

"And yet, for ought I see, they are as sick, that surfeit

with too much,

As they which starve with nothing."

"There is a sickness

MERCHANT OFf Venice.

Which puts some of us in distemper, but
I cannot name the disease."

WINTER'S TALE.

It was with real regret that I left Welbourne and its philosophical master, though with a promise of visiting him again; and I now proceeded in earnest towards Bath. I shall not, thought I, find many Carletons or Fawknors there; any more than the gay flutterers who, with gilded wing, used formerly to people its sunbeams. But though no longer what it was, it has still a character for the remains, at least, of elegance and beauty;-like many a veteran dame (whom I could name, but will not) of high renown for the beaux restes of charms, the power of which the still existing charm of their grace and manners sufficiently demonstrates.

Such I expected to find, and such I actually found, this beautiful but almost deserted city. Invalids alone were now its principal visitors, and I hoped to reap a harvest of observation.

The first person I saw gave me some promise; for on entering the town, stretched upon the cushions of an exquisitely-contrived barouche, and going to take his daily airing, I beheld the illustrious Yawn, of Yawn Hall, whom the reader will recollect we left at Speenham, progressing on his road to the city of health. As at Speenham I had seen nothing but his back and legs, I should not have known him but for my groom, who

had scraped acquaintance with his servant, now in the barouche with his master, and informed me accordingly. On meeting him, I had observed with not much pleasure his sallow cheek and sunken eye, and a sort of distressed brow and weary look. I own, therefore, I had not much ambition to examine farther an apparently immense mass of pampered discontent. But Etheredge, who had known him in the world, had written me word, that if I met him again I should find him well worth investigating, and had even sent me a letter of introduction, which I at last resolved to deliver.

Imagine my surprise, when I found myself received with a politeness of manner indicating a man who had been in the habits of the best company. His querulous tone had not vanished, but his conversation was sensibe, and his look sometimes, though seldom, almost animated. Yet we talked of little but the common topics of the world, in which we found we had many common acquaintance, whom I was surprised to observe he handled with humour bordering upon something still more keen: for I left him with an impression more in favour of his wit than his good nature; wit which seemed to rouse him to notice foibles and failures, rather than what he called the dull machinery, not of content, but of dogged submission. This, he said, was the general lot of the world. In his satire he showed nothing like ennui, though a good deal of spleen. In fact, from his own confessed disappointments, I thought that those of others did not displease him; and I left him not over pleased myself, but sufficiently curious to resolve to see him again. I had afterwards several interviews with him, which seemed to give him as much pleasure as his jaded mind was capable of receiving; and certainly a great deal to his domestic governor, (for so his servant appeared,) who told me in terms, I always did his master good.

"To tell you the truth, Sir," said he, "the poor gentleman complains of being, as he says, perpetually bored by people who would not care if he was dead; and yet he complains more if they don't come to see him; so I hope, as he likes you, you will come often."

I assured Mr. Barwis I would do my possible, especially as he told me his master had naturally a good disposition; of which, in regard to generosity, he gave me several instances, although he owned that his charities were often marred by a cross manner of bestowing them. And yet I myself found this was not always so; as an example, which I witnessed after I had obtained much of his confidence, proved in a rather curi

ous way.

I came in upon him one day, in the middle of a quarrel with this said Barwis, who had neglected some orders, trifling in themselves, but which he thought essential. His tone was of the loudest, and he accused the poor man of wilful neglect: God knows whether deservedly or not. He was foaming with rage; threw himself into a chair with violence, and not minding me, almost gnashed his teeth; till growing ashamed of the indecency, he began to wish he could behave better, and confessed as much when Barwis had left the room.

"I am a sad beast," said he, striking his forehead. "No irritable man ever was, or ever can be, happy. May God change me!"

At that moment a chaffer crawled across his hand, and he had a particular aversion to chaffers. This kindled him again.

"This creature, too," said he, in a tone of despair, "is, like everything else, leagued against me;" and he lifted up his other hand to crush it. "Yet why?" cried he, and stopped. "Poor wretch! he has little of life; why should I shorten it? He is not like me, sour, impatient, mindless of my Maker's benefits. May I be worse than I am, if I hurt him;" and he shook him off among the flowers that decorated the windows.

This led me to suppose there had been seeds of good nature, if I might not say good temper, in him; but sadly, indeed, were they stifled; and I bore witness to his own apothegm, that no irritable man could be happy.