inscription was merely placed here for the ornament of the
Grotto, and the sentiments and the Hermit are equally imaginary.
Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to
the World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly
forgotten by it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind,
the Misanthrope flies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit,
and buries himself in the Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate
inflames his bosom, possibly He may feel contented with his
situation: But when his passions begin to cool; when Time has
mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which He bore with
him to his solitude, think you that Content becomes his
Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence
of his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living,
and his heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. He looks
round, and finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of
society revives in his bosom, and He pants to return to that
world which He has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his
eyes: No one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in
his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the
fragment of some Rock, He gazes upon the tumbling waterfall with
a vacant eye, He views without emotion the glory of the setting
Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for no one there
is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his solitary
unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss
despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as
joyless, as monotonous as the former.'

'You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you
to solitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the
consciousness of a life well spent communicate to your heart that