watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of
its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of
twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober grey.
Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert;
or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of
those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and
nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his
eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any
passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by
the world. His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely
said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced. The
consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners,
which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like
his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite
plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light
die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are
reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all
others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates
it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among
the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and
fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night,
came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening
melancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his
retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost
them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and
though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he