and joy;--in maturity, ambition, pride, and its attendant
ostentation;--when more advanced in years, grief, fear, and
despair;--and in old age, avarice, and a kind of very churlish dislike
of every thing presented to us.

But to return to Natura, from whose adventures I have digressed; but I
hope forgiveness for it, as it was not only the history of the man I
took upon me to relate, but also to point out, in his example, the
various progress of the passions in a human mind.

He acquitted himself of the important trust had been reposed in him,
with all the diligence and discretion could be expected from him; and
returned honoured with many rich presents from the prince to whom he
had been sent, as a testimony of the sense he had of his abilities.

But scarce had he time to receive the felicitations of his friends on
this score, before an accident happened to him, which demanded a much
more than equal share of condolance from them.--His son, his only son,
the darling of his heart, was seized with a distemper in his head,
which in a very few days baffled the art of medicine, and snatched
him from the world.--What now availed his honours, his wealth, his
every requisite for grandeur, or for pleasure?--He, for whose sake
chiefly he had laboured to acquire them, was no more!--no second self
remained to enjoy what he must one day leave behind him.--All of him
was now collected in his own being, and with _that_ being must
end.--Melancholly reflection!--yet not the worst that this unhappy
incident inflicted:--his estate, all at least that had descended to
him by inheritance, with the vast improvements he had made on it, must
now devolve on a brother he had so much cause to hate, and whose very
name but mentioned struck horror to his heart.

The motives for his grief were great, it must be allowed, and such as
demanded the utmost fortitude to sustain;--he certainly exerted all he
was master of on this occasion; but, in spite of his efforts, nature
got the upper hand, and rendered him inconsolable:--he burst not into
any violent exclamations, but the silent sorrow preyed on his vitals,
and reduced him, in a short time, almost to the shadow of what he had
been.

One of the most dangerous effects of melancholy is, the gloomy
pleasure it gives to every thing that serves to indulge it:--darkness
and solitude are its delight and nourishment, and the person possessed
of it, naturally shuns and hates whatever might alleviate it;--t