charming but short; I had others of a longer dura`tion, and perhaps from better motives."

"I did not know you were such a disciple," said Tremaine.

"Oh yes," returned the Doctor, "I have often shut myself up."

"The occasion ?" asked Tremaine. "Why wisdom's self, you know,

Oft seeks a sweet retired solitude,

Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,

She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings,
That in the various bustle of resort

Were all too ruffled, and sometime impair'd.”

"But seriously, it was to recover the bent of my mind-I may even say of my virtue-when I had been sadly dissipated, as I too often was, and when ease, seriousness, books, and retired devotion became absolutely necessary for my purpose."

Georgina took her father's hand.

"An anchoret, I protest!" cried Tremaine : "had you lived in the fifth century we should have had you in the desert."

"Indeed you would not," returned Evelyn, "for, having accomplished my purpose by restoring reflection, or by recovering the studies I was near upon losing (in exchange, perhaps, for an opera dance), I sighed again for a communication with my species; and, indeed, often felt thankful to join

the supper conversation of the people with whom I lived."

"And who were they?" asked Tremaine.

"A mere woodman and his wife," said Evelyn, "whose lodge was a mile distant from all other habitations, except of rabbits and tame pheasants, and whose cheerful children were not unfrequently an acceptable diversion to a man, who, with all his resources, was growing tired of himself.”

6

"I have heard, indeed," said Tremaine, "of being as melancholy as a lodge in a warren,' but knew not how practically true the simile was. Yet you did this often?"

"I did, and may venture to say I was always the better for it. Many, at least, are the subjects I examined, both in literature and morals, in these temporary retreats, and the woodman's house was to me always

Mihi me reddentis agelli.'

"Your picture is at least pretty," said Tremaine, "and I only wonder your secession from the world was not of longer continuance."

"There was no occasion for it," returned Evelyn, for I was not under any great disgust, like Timon; nor had I had a disappointment to madness, like Camillo; nor was I under the influence of religious melancholy, like Jerome. I simply

wished to think, and to examine myself at leisure, -which I could not do in a crowd; and when I had done this, I returned to the world."

CHAP. XXVIII.

WILL WIMBLE.

"Win us with honest trifles.”

SHAKSPEARE.

As the party returned to the house, the doctor asked Georgina if Will Wimble was not to dine with them; which she answered in the affirmative.

"And who is Will Wimble?" inquired Tremaine.

"A sort of pet of mine," answered Evelyn, "whom you once well knew, though you have forgotten him now. Many's the time, he says, he has played at leap-frog with you at your first school."

"I have not the honour of making out who he can be," replied Tremaine.

"Perhaps not," said the Doctor, "for Wimble is a name I have given him; his godfathers and

godmothers christened him John, his friends call him Jack, and his surname is Careless. He descends from that Colonel Careless who passed those pleasant hours with his prince in the oak, after the battle of Worcester: the only thing he's proud of in that way; though he piques himself on making the best fly for a trout, breaking the best pointer, and turning the best rosin box in all the county. 'Tis hence I call him Will Wimble."

"I suppose, too," said Tremaine, sarcastically, "he is as polite as his namesake, and waits at every stile till you come up, for fear you should think there are no manners in the country."

"Not at all unlikely," answered the Doctor, "for he is not very quiescent under any supposed superiority of the town, in that, or indeed in any respect, and is, in fact, in most of his feelings, not only a John Bull, but complete Yorkshire to boot."

"I now recollect him," said Tremaine; "but I thought the breed of such worthy gentlemen was utterly extinct."

"Not altogether,” replied Evelyn, "though I do not suppose our political philosophers of the present day would take any great pains to preserve it— seeing that he, as an individual of the species, certainly does not contribute much to the wealth of nations. And, in fact, I do not recommend the

idleness of his life as an example to be followed. He is a man of nature, however, in his way, and so much of a philosopher, that his garden is of far greater consequence to him than his money. He once lost a hundred pounds (all he had saved of his own in the world) by the failure of a neighbouring bank. That morning I received a letter from him, beginning with how sorry I should be to hear of his misfortune. Both Georgy and I were indeed sincerely concerned at what we had before heard; but on reading farther, we found not a word about the hundred pounds, but a great many lamentations that a violent hail-storm had broken down the finest shew of balsams he had ever had, which would certainly have won the prize at the next florists” feast. But he never could bear what are called worldly cares to interfere with him, and once sacrificed even his hopes of fortune to his love of liberty."

"I honour him for that, at least," said Tremaine ; "but what is this last story?"

“He had a cousin, a merchant at Liverpool, who offered to take him into partnership, provided he would apply to business. He gave a reluctant consent; his place was taken in the coach, and the hour of departure approached; when, going to take a last glimpse of a brook that ran at the bottom of his garden, in which he had caught many a trout, it