at the paltry excuses that were made in answer to his just remonstrances on this ill treatment. But, as we have observed, he had loved the injurer, for many real virtues, for long-tried honour in the world, and long-tried friendship towards himself; and when he found that even such a man had failed and forgotten him, it went to his very heart. At first, he thought he had fallen into some error concerning him, or at best that he was merely capricious; and, being open and confiding himself, he sought explanations, which he thought would instantly restore things to their old level. But he was shocked to find that the man he had so loved took refuge from his advances in coldness; and the few explanations he condescended to make were of a nature so frivolous, so bordering, indeed, upon equivocation, that something very like indignation and haughty reproach on Tremaine's part marked their separation. The feeling was not diminished by seeing this person fall immediately under the government of the upstart above-mentioned, who had wound about his naturally honourable mind, by a train of the most obsequious flattery, to which, it need not be observed, Tremaine neither would nor could condescend. The result was, that he almost pitied while he renounced him; and though, we repeat, he might have been disposed to laugh at a person less richly endowed than the one in question, yet, when he reflected on who had deceived him, he "Wept to think that Atticus was he." In the end, the negociation for power which produced this separation failed, and the deceiving parties were themselves disappointed. But Tremaine never forgot their treatment; and from that hour, as has been said, to effect a retreat from a world in which he seemed to have been betrayed both by man and woman, became his favourite wish. CHAP. IX. HE RESOLVES TO RETIRE. "This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, SHAKSPEARE. TREMAINE'S wish for retirement was not a little fostered by the course of his former reading, and, as far as he could understand himself, by the inclination of his taste. He had been bred a scholar. Homer, Horace, Virgil, and Theocritus were familiar to him; and in the closet of the student of divinity and of law, and even in the tent of the soldier, they had soothed and flattered his imagination. Horace, in particular, had always been a congenial favourite; especially as, besides being a poet, he also gave himself to politics, and associated with public men and many an alarm to Tremaine's pride had been assuaged, and many a fit of virtuous indignation encouraged, by the Sabine Field, and the "Oh! Rus, quando ego te aspiciam!'' */ But the "Tusculanum Fundum" of Cicero, and the magnificent Laurentinum of Pliny, (both of whom, at times, were retired statesmen as well as philosophers) charmed his imagination still more than "Lucretilis," or the "Tiburni Lucus:" and as his habits had become expensive, not to say voluptuous, and in the extreme of modern elegance, he resolved upon combining the mental philosophy of Horace with the personal magnificence of the Roman consuls. He pitched, therefore, upon Belmont as his retreat; and with this view enlarged and decorated it at considerable expense, as more romantic and picturesque in situation, and fitter therefore for his purpose, than the more ancient and respectable, but less elegant mansion, in a more distant county, which had always been the seat of his fathers. There have not been wanting persons who said that it was to this distance in the latter, rather than to the natural beauty of the former, that the choice was owing; for Yorkshire was too far removed from those scenes of politics after which he still hankered, and to which he thought it possible he might still be forced to return: this, however, is what was said by others. Be this as it may, he announced Belmont as the seat of his retirement from a world he was resolved to abandon; and felt no diminution of his resolution, in planning, at an enormous cost, the elegant scene of his future studies, future independence, and future happiness. It was here he resolved, in his favourite phrase, to view the world at a distance, and act up to the dignity of a patriot, free from the tumults and vexations of patriotism. As to the softer passions, he had entirely done with them. With these prospective pleasures, duties, and occupations, Tremaine gave a farewell dinner to a large yet select company of his friends, in which professors of politics, professors of belles-lettres, and professors of good breeding were pleasantly mixed. The savoir vivre shone out on this occasion with a splendour seldom equalled, and it was observed that the master of the feast was never less listless or splenetic, and never seemingly in such good-humour with the world, as while thus in the act of taking leave of it, perhaps for ever. Two days after, he arrived at Belmont. CHAP. X. THE FIRST MORNING OF RETIREMENT. "Omitting the sweet benefit of Time." SHAKSPEARE. WE left Tremaine on a sleepless and feverish pillow; which he thought was peculiarly unfortunate, as it might defeat the purposed commencement of his happiness the next day. Not that early rising had been one of his habits, particularly after his accession to fortune. The morning, therefore, after his arrival at Belmont, found the sun up, and the business of the house begun, several hours before he was stirring. But This threw every thing else behind-hand. as he had nothing but what he forced himself to do, it was of little consequence, he conceived, to himself, and still less to others, at what time it was done. If, indeed, by chance or necessity, he rose earlier than usual, he confessed that the early morning was a fine thing; but a rule upon it defeated the freedom, and therefore the happiness of man, par |