dows, and make my room a bower, for all the golden magnificence of Versailles?"

I had no more to say, but muttered, I believe, something about Addison intending to be a Bishop, after having been Secretary of State.

"He would have become his lawn well," said Atticus.

"And are you like him in this too," said I, you certainly are in many other things?"

"as

I said this hesitatingly, and rather hoping to produce from his answer something like an opening to my object.

"I am not so worthy of it," replied he; "but if I were, even at my age, I know little that would please me more."

"You would then, though Lord Chancellor, exchange the mace for the mitre !"

"It would be better for many a Lord Chancellor, if he had that disposition," returned our friend. "Or a Prime Minister!"

"Best of all," observed he, " if he could possibly have sufficient materials, as Addison had; and above all, could discipline himself to forget the exciting storms in which he had past his life. But this no Prime Minister can do."

"Not even in such a place as this?"

"He must first have these materials in his own

mind," replied he, " before place can make any difference. For, be assured, had I not for years. of my public life before it ended, been preparing myself, I am not such an enthusiast as to suppose walks or gardens could have ever been the boundary of my wishes."

"You, who so admire

The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields.'

"Yes; for had I not had something else to feed my mind as well as my eyes, I believe I should starve on ennui, or, like Gil Blas, abandon Llirias, and return to court."

Here seemed to be a little opening, and it was not without a sort of hope that I said, " Have two years then done nothing to satiate you? Two years of absolute monotony, while all the world are stirring in these most stirring times! Forgive me if I say you have no right to be so useless."

"Useless!" cried he, with emphasis. "Was Temple useless, though no man was more devoted to retreat, as well as distinguished in business?"

"Your model, then, is Sir William Temple," said I; "a celebrated and philosophic minister certainly."

"And could I have a better?" he answered. "But though if I followed him, it would be like the

little Julus, non passibus æquis. I would gladly at Llirias be like "him at Sheen."

“I trust, then, replied I, "if you are like him in pursuits, that you will benefit the world as he did, by pouring out your mind in literary labours."

"They were charming labours," said Atticus, "and worth to mankind a thousand times more than his political exertions, which, however splendid, were only beneficial to his employers. In short, he was a real philosopher; and as he did not bury his talents with himself, he was any thing but what you said just now useless."

He said this with a sort of determined if not reproachful air, that made me think I was farther off my object than ever. To sound him, however, I could not help observing, in allusion to Sir William Temple's labours, that I supposed, as I hoped, that Atticus would at least continue to help the world he had so long served, by giving them, like his hero, the benefit of his experience in print.

"Print," said he, smiling, "is too adventurous; but if you mean that I may be occupied with recording my own thoughts as they arise, I know not the employment more sweet, whatever their worth."

My curiosity was greatly excited, and I fairly

asked if a history of his own time would not be a good thing? He shook his head, and said,

"No. I have been too near to some, and too far off from others. Many impostors, who yet have a sort of character, which their own hypocrisy and other people's ignorance have enabled them to obtain, I could dissect, and have dissected. But, like Coriolanus with his own, I would show their wounds in private. Pompous pretensions, violated promises, and a total failure in professed principles, might be fairly and reasonably exposed, and not the worse, because by a man who had seen and understood their trickery. But to raise personal enemies would disturb my tranquillity; the only treasure (a great one indeed) that is now left me. Nevertheless, I do not disguise that I have often before me that attracting passage of Sallust, which has kindled many a statesman, ere now, with a wish to become an historian,— Igitur ubi animus ex multis miseriis atque periculis requievit, et mihi reliquam ætatem à Republicâ procul habendam decrevi; non fuit consilium socordiâ atque desidiâ bonum otium conterere: neque verò agrum colendo, aut venando, servilibus officiis intentum, ætatem agere. Sed à quo incepto studioque me ambitio mala detinuerat, eodem regressus, statui res gestas Populi Romani carptim, ut quæque memoria digna videbantur perscribere,

eò magis, quòd mihi à spe, metu, partibus Reipublicæ, animus liber erat.'

"But, come," continued Atticus, "we have paced this walk long enough, and you must be tired of being so bound in by Art and Le Nôtre. Let us go to Claremont, where Kent and Nature vie for our love."*

Then pulling out a key, he opened a small gate to which his gardener only had access, and which showed a path winding through hornbeams and beeches.

This led us to a declivity, till we came to a terrace, not so extensive indeed as Lowther, but as smooth, as velvety, and soft to the feet, and letting in all that the eye could desire for loveliness of prospect. It looked precipitously upon the rattling stream I had passed in the way to the house, and though aloft, we could distinctly see the foam, and hear the gurgling of its waters as they leaped from rock to rock, or rather from stone to stone. For though wild, it was on a small scale, and partook, as I observed to him, of it master's moderation.

"It has little of magnificence," said he, “and certainly is not a Niagara; but it has a great deal of beauty, and those mountain ash and wild roses which start from every fissure in the rock, with

"Where.Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love."