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The boy brings the horses to the river to drink, and, as they drink, yawns and lazily rubs his eyes open, for his master may be at the stable when he returns,

I look on the river again, and perceive the sails of a vessel set, and she is quickly going into harbor. Another has just hauled anchor, and a tar is on the yards letting out the sheets and preparing to be out.

Ten thousand sights here may be seen; and each create its separate and distinct thought, and emotion. And these things have surely a power of passing through the heart and mind, and as by magic stealing away thoughts and feelings from one'self. This is the power change of scene has. New sights make us forget old feelings and associations, and renew the early susceptibility to enjoyment. So much so, that if I be not happy now, I am at least calm, and perhaps prepared for impressions of a better nature.

But I stay! My boat is restless on the shore.

JULY 5th. I am now no longer settled down as heretofore in pleasing study. I have almost ceased to be an Epicurean. Ambition has left me, and with its hated sarcasm, smiled at the being it has victimized. Love is almost maddened into despair. And to the world why should I not be thoroughly indifferent, and on it vent my spleen?

I was won by the ever-varying pleasures of study, I closely attached myself to them, and in them forgot the world; and perhaps the duties I owed to my kind—hence I became a selfish

creature.

Ambition seduced me with its promises, as it enlivened me in my pursuits. It made me dream that I would easily be that which I never could be. At last I have found out that all was

error-falsity. That it encourages you to proceed on and on until you reach that place from which there is no return, and there it leaves you.

Epicureanism is a glaringly-painted insect-the outside, the butterfly wing of geometric down-the thousand reflectors in an eye-the blythe, the airy thing that sports upon the breeze, then lays down to die. Sprung from a hideous worm-a gaily phantom! the slightest rustling air can waft away, a drop of smallest dew despoil, a pebble that a bird would swallow— crush.

And as to love. Alas! my love has not returned, and I am very unhappy. But, to be unhappy is so much my habit, that I half believe it natural to me. And there are those things so strong in us, that we are forced to think them part of our nature. Yet is it so? No; love is as much acquired as our

mother tongue, and has its rise in, and is perfectly dependant on, the kindness and affection of others. Just as our unhappiness, likewise, depends on our dissonance with the world—our painful circumstances-with a long line of causes.

And now that I am indifferent to fame, despise the world, and everything connected with it, I do not despise, but deeply and painfully regret the monomania of my father, so kind he is in all save this. I think he should be as ready to pardon my monomania, as I am his. But all men cannot think, neither can they act alike; and it would therefore perhaps be, as philosophers say a misfortune if they did. I could wish it were so in this case; and my father's and my own turn of mind were the same. It would have been a happiness which would have afforded too much disquiet to this world; for men are envious of your very enjoyment.

I have but a single object now left to me. I would give up all pursuits which do not perfectly accord with love-all foolish fashion-frivolity of every sort, and dissipation, if I ever was dissipated, and centre my whole affection in a single object, and consume it with love. I am unworthy that woman; for I have done no deed to deserve her, and all I can give her, since it is all I have, is love, which, however, a sentimental world considers sufficient. But who knows that she

will? who thinks that she ought?

Once more, cursed world begone! I am done with you. I would not ask ought at your hands, poor as I am. When a giddy boy, you frolicked with me, and caressed me; when a man, you trifled with me, as though I were still a child; and now you have deserted me-but just as I expected, when fortune stript me of her promises. Remember! I discard you when I most need your favor and your kindness. World! I do it with the sneer of a proud man, and one who feels himself your superior. When I shall require that last necessity for the continuance of a wretched existence, think you that I will sue you to help me? No; life hangs on a thread, they say. I have an excellent instrument with which to sever that thread; and I have the spirit to release the soul from its house of trouble.

If I owe the world anything of favor or duty—the smallest piece of money, I do not know it. A sensitive man cannot be in debt without being in misery. And I do not so love life, as makes me desire to linger on a little longer. I am not so devoted to wretchedness, as to seek to purchase another hour of it, as some of the great have done, with their all of mortality.

JULY 10th.-Who that has had the feelings of a desperate

man

ever forgets them? that perfect indifference to all the acts of fortune, alike careless of its smiles and regardless of its frowns; the envy and jealousy felt in regard to more contented beings; the sense of ridicule among men of our actions and pretensions; the mockery of our ideas; the longing wish for death, and the hope of annihilation; those bitter feelings towards ourselves, and the disregard of others' hate; the perfect isolation from all humanity.

No man is less to be envied than this one. It is his misfortune to be sensitive—a grievous misfortune; and in his wounded feelings he knows not whether to regard or despise his being made

"A fixed figure, for the time of scorn

To point his slow, unmoving finger at."

Too proud to allow the world to believe he is pained by these unkind attentions, his feelings induce him to despise the actor rather than the action; for there is something tangible about the former-something on which he can be avenged.

The world may call him strange: accustomed to it, he but smiles, with a feeling, not so much of bitterness, as that he is one with whom men are unacquainted, save by some apparent deviation in action from themselves. He smiles, I say, at their imagined opinions-their doubtful notions of him; for he thinks, if we are acquainted with few of the actions of men, we are very apt to form a singularly incorrect notion of them, more so even, than if we knew them not at all. In proof of which, I will bring to mind a case. From a short acquaintance with a young man some years ago, I conceived him to be dissipated, and everything but a man of excellence. And how did I

judge? Seeing him discover much vivacity in company, that he was free in conversation, and, on one occasion, dressed fancifully. Now this young man was never free in drinking— he was a man of virtuous mind, and that once was the only time I ever saw him dressed as a fop, as I thought. Instead of light in conversation, I never met with a man of his age more profound. And so far as devotion to a friend is concerned, he was true, if, of course, we can judge of men outwardly, which, O! my heart, you know I am inclined to doubt.

Well! I suspect the world is right, and I am a strange man. I am reminded of it so often that I am forced to believe it, or be still stranger in differing from men-who know me better than I know myself. For as the world goes, every man must know you thoroughly, and you, poor devil! not know yourself at all.

It is very true, that once I was gay in society-which I esteemed a sort of Punchinello show, at which I used to be seen now and then like other men. In fact, I was there to relieve my mind from the severity of my studies, or an inclination to too urgent thought. I have laughed loudly-heartily—and I have been to all appearance, extremely joyous: and therefore the world little dreamed that I was unhappy-that I was wearing out my heart: the rose was on my cheek, and my eye was bright and smiling, and I was in the bloom of health. The world cannot-and perhaps it is fortunate, distinguish between physical and mental disease-many physicians there be of the body, few of the mind and heart.

I was considered eccentric--I acknowledge my actions were not as those of other men; for my situation was not that of others at all-since at times, I was borne about by the whims of

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