the joy of my heart is to "study men, their manners, and their ways;"
and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other
consideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set
the bustling, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the
present hour, I am very easy with regard to anything further. Even the
last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the wretched[5] does not much
terrify me: I know that even then my talent for what countryfolks call
"a sensible crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would
procure me so much esteem that even then--I would learn to be happy.
However, I am under no apprehensions about that; for though indolent,
yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy;
and in many things, especially in tavern matters, I am a strict
economist; not, indeed, for the sake of the money; but one of the
principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach; and I
scorn to fear the face of any man living: above every thing, I abhor as
hell the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun--possibly some
pitiful sordid wretch, whom in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this,
and this alone, that endears economy to me.[6]

In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors
are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his
_Elegies;_ Thomson; _Man of Feeling,_--a book I prize next to the Bible;
_Man of the World_; Sterne, especially his _Sentimental Journey_;
Macpherson's _Ossian_, etc.;--these are the glorious models after which
I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous--'tis absurd to
suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up at
their sacred flame--the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all
the human race--he "who can soar above this little scene of things"--can
he descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the terrae-filial
race fret, and fume, and vex themselves! O, how the glorious triumph