gling with the world diverted and interested me. Occasionally I beguiled the time with a recurrence to my old pastime of seeing beauties and greatness that did not exist but the frequent interruptions of social engagements prevented the habit from tyrannizing over and possessing my mind as it once had done. At length the charms of society were exhausted by repetition, and the tide of things had borne me into the more solid concerns of serious business. I had passed through the portals of professional preparation, and presented myself to the world as a candidate for the patronage of employment. But the marks of feebleness and confinement which the swathing bands of long seclusion and morbid meditations had left upon my character, rendered me unfit for the rude and stern bustling of the world. It was a pain to me to give my attention to the prosaic common-places of daily occupation, and the unlustrous dulness of quiet duty. An insane imagination, like a slavish parasite, had flattered me into a vastness of expectation which the moderation of the tribute that the selfish world afforded, mocked with disappointment, and filled me with disgust and despair. When others were not eager to load me with praises, their abstinence from incense seemed contempt and insult. The wide intensity of all my apprehensions and impressions, had accustomed me to regard every thing with a primary and peculiar reference to myself, and when the herd of men went each on his own way and only regarded me as a subordinate and unimportant point in his system of life, this necessary insignificance on my part irritated me with bitter mortification. I slowly awoke to the consciousness that I was but a common man-that, 'the doom of mortality,' was not to be reversed for me'that the splendid impossibilities of hope with which I had imped my powers, were but painted wings upon a form of clay. Yet when I turned from this discouragement to look within, I found no comfort there; I had no relish for the calmness of thought, and memory presented only a scene of regret and self-reproach. My thoughts, long accustomed to excitement and event,

were vehemently impelled towards the external, and I felt urged to pour my spirit forth upon the fields of action and incident. But in me, the strong desire eclipsed the aim;' I wished the prize too madly to contend for it. The long interval which lies between the effort and the end, in life, wearied my longings; for I knew not how meanwhile to still the beatings of my heart. The necessary patience of ambition was not mine. If one great momentary struggle could have won me the reward I coveted, I might have put forth gigantic strength; but the slow cold touches of continued toil-what were they at the best but failure, in themselves, where the instant constantness of everlasting victory was demanded. I could not endure to plant the tardy seed, and lie down and rise up, and see no fruit, but teach myself to wait. The ardour of desire strangled its own promptings; the full anticipation of enjoyment debauched the senses from that healthy hardihood of strength which the acquisition of the boon required. In truth, those who have ever attained greatness have never contemplated that result when they began; they have applied themselves with hopefulness and content to the successive labours which their progress brought up to them, and have always made the immediate end that lay before them, the sole task which absorbed their consideration.

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"It will not be deemed surprising that from the discomfort of these painful realities, I fled to my former visionary occupation. No food, less stimulating than the banquet of passionate dreams, could satisfy a taste long corrupted by familiarity with the wonderful and the exaggerated. I counted my years, and found that I was still much younger than those whom I saw successful around me; and I saw no reason why I might not yet trifle away some months in the enervating idleness of revery, and defer to a period yet distant the full and earnest exertions of those energies which I still intended to exert. With a rapture that was undisturbed by a single fear or doubt, I flung myself into the elysian fields of fancy, and tasted all the joy which flowered

there so freely. I was one day engaged in this fascinating employment when the thought came suddenly upon me-why may I not pass all my life in this condition, and never wake from the dream which thus delights me? The pleasure which I derived from imagination was equally strong with that which reality presented; perhaps it was even greater, for it caught only the gratifications of the circumstances which it painted, and showed none of the abatements and detractions which the actual situation would have experienced. In truth, the joy in no wise differed in kind; for in life, it is not the thing, but the notion of the thing, which touches the mind. Moreover, from the most pleasing incidents is not the chief pleasure extracted by imagining the event which is at hand? If it be well pondered, there is no element of sweetness in the occurrences of truth which is not an ingredient in the cup of fancy. This suggestion spread a glow of delight through my mind, and swept away all the annoyances and anxieties which had so much harassed me. There was no obstacle to its fulfilment; my father had recently died and left me the heir of an extensive fortune, and I had not a relative in the world. In society, such a scheme would not be practicable, for a thousand necessities force one into fellowship with men; but I might retire from the world, and in the solitude of a life-long singleness gild my being with the richest hues of conceivable ecstasy. What if such a course were weak and unworthy-fit rather for the foolish girl than the full-grown man? If it increased my happiness that was all I regarded. I might defy opinion, and never come to a reckoning with prudence. I bore this joy within myself, and character, and esteem, and worldly consideration were nothing to me.

"In fulfilment of this scheme I fixed myself in this place, and in it my only occupation has been-to dream. My days are one continued exercise of fancy. The morning wakes me to no other task than that of building airy domes of pleasure, and at night the curtain falls upon a life whose substance is a shadow. I

recline upon yonder sofa and the air above me is peopled with the phantoms of royal pomp: the atmosphere of oriental magnificence is roseate around me, and the hum of admiring multitudes rises beneath. I have rehearsed the tales of the poet and the harangues of the orator under such strong deception of idea, that if I were to speak thoughtlessly of certain of the more distinguished productions of genius, I should probably allude to them as my own. Again and again have I enacted on a shadowy theatre the majestic melancholy of Hamlet, the furrowed agonies of Lear, the more domestic anguish of Othello; until beneath the strong delusion of imagined greatness, I have felt my own name brightened with all the rays of glory which the gratitude of ages and of nations has reflected on the name of Shakspeare. I walk beside the murmuring brook and say to myself that Virgil treads the sod. I recline beneath the shadow of the elm and think that Horace is musing by his lyre. Within the covering of this window-seat I have repeated all the battles of Alexander, and strode along the portico beneath with all the stateliness of another Napoleon. So habitual have these things become to me that I never for a moment realize my true condition and character. Through long repetition of the exertion, invention has ceased to be an effort, and fancy seems now to work of its own free accord. I have also wrought out an interior and secondary degree of imaginary existence, which is subtler than the ordinary medium of visions, in the same proportion that that is finer than the substance of a solid. My nightly dreams always present to me this rarefied and transcendental species of ideas; though during many months after I had begun this profession of day-dreaming, I never dreamt in sleep. This sublimated delicacy of visions to which I have attained, is inexpressibly delightful. Thus do I pass my time, No trouble comes near me; no fear can rise up to vex me. I have wealth enough to secure me from any apprehension of physical discomfort; I have every thing around me to make my days flow on in unrippled peace. I look upon myself as

having discovered the art of life. I sow no seed, yet reap the richest fruit. I plant no vines, but quaff the rarest wine. All past and all possible existence is tributary to my pleasure. For my honour the bard has sung; for my glory has the warrior striven. By me, no toil is borne; on me, is showered the selectest essence of all the joy the great of other times have seemed to feel."

When Mr. Thirlwall had finished his narrative, our conversation ended, and I retired to my room. I have seen many persons whom I might venture to call happy; I have known but one whose life I thought delicious.

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