been a rich man at this
day; but, rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and that, perhaps,
when you least expect it.--Vicar of Wakefield.

What with the anxiety and uncertainty of my political prospects, the
continued dissipation in which I lived, and, above all, the unpropitious
state of my belle passion, my health gave way; my appetite forsook
me--my sleep failed me--a wrinkle settled itself under my left eye, and
my mother declared, that I should have no chance with an heiress: all
these circumstances together, were not without their weight. So I set
out one morning to Hampton Court, (with a volume of Bishop Berkely, and
a bottle of wrinkle water,) for the benefit of the country air.

It is by no means an unpleasant thing to turn one's back upon the
great city, in the height of its festivities. Misanthropy is a charming
feeling for a short time, and one inhales the country, and animadverts
on the town, with the most melancholy satisfaction in the world. I sat
myself down at a pretty little cottage, a mile out of the town. From the
window of my drawing-room I revelled in the luxurious contemplation of
three pigs, one cow, and a straw-yard; and I could get to the Thames
in a walk of five minutes, by a short cut through a lime-kiln. Such
pleasing opportunities of enjoying the beauties of nature, are not often
to be met with: you may be sure, therefore, that I made the most of
them. I rose early, walked before breakfast, pour ma sante, and came
back with a most satisfactory head-ache, pour mes peines. I read
for just three hours, walked for two more, thought over Abernethy,
dyspepsia, and blue pills, till dinner; and absolutely forgot Lord
Dawton, ambition, Guloseton, epicurism--aye, all but--of course, reader,
you know whom I am about to except--the ladye of my love.

One bright, laughing day, I threw down my book an hour sooner than
usual, and sallied out with a lightness of foot and exhilaration of
spirit, to which I had long been a stranger. I had just sprung over a
stile that led into one of those green shady lanes, which make us feel
the old poets who loved, and lived for, Nature, were right in calling
our island "the merry England"--when I was startled by a short, quick
bark, on one side of the hedge. I turned sharply round; and, seated upon
the sward, was a man, apparently of the pedlar profession; a large
deal box was lying open before him; a few articles of linen, and female
dress, were scattered round,