softness of her manner to those around her, and the benevolence of her
actions to those beneath; how often he turned away with a veneration too
deep for the selfishness of human passion, and a tenderness too sacred
for its desires! It was in this temper (the earliest and the most
fruitless prognostic of real love) that the following letter was
written.



FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON. FREDERICK MONKTON.

I have had two or three admonitory letters from my uncle. "The summer
(he says) is advancing, yet you remain stationary in your indolence.
There is still a great part of Europe which you have not seen; and since
you will neither enter society for a wife, nor the House of Commons for
fame, spend your life, at least while it is yet free and unshackled, in
those active pursuits which will render idleness hereafter more sweet; or
in that observation and enjoyment among others, which will increase your
resources in yourself." All this sounds well; but I have already
acquired more knowledge than will be of use either to others or myself,
and I am not willing to lose tranquillity here for the chance of
obtaining pleasure elsewhere. Pleasure is indeed a holiday sensation
which does not occur in ordinary life. We lose the peace of years when
we hunt after the rapture of moments.

I do not know if you ever felt that existence was ebbing away without
being put to its full value: as for me, I am never conscious of life
without being also conscious that it is not enjoyed to the utmost. This
is a bitter feeling, and its worst bitterness is our ignorance how to
remove it. My indolence I neither seek nor wish to defend, yet it is