rcle spread after another. When it chances to
rain I walk in the great hall, and watch the minute-hand upon the
dial, or play with a litter of kittens which the cat happens to have
brought in a lucky time.

My aunt is afraid I shall grow melancholy, and therefore encourages
the neighbouring gentry to visit us. They came at first with great
eagerness to see the fine lady from London, but when we met we had no
common topic on which we could converse; they had no curiosity after
plays, operas, or music; and I find as little satisfaction from their
accounts of the quarrels or alliances of families, whose names, when
once I can escape, I shall never hear. The women have now seen me,
know how my gown is made, and are satisfied; the men are generally
afraid of me, and say little, because they think themselves not at
liberty to talk rudely.

Thus am I condemned to solitude; the day moves slowly forward, and I
see the dawn with uneasiness, because I consider that night is at a
great distance. I have tried to sleep by a brook, but find its murmurs
ineffectual; so that I am forced to be awake at least twelve hours,
without visits, without cards, without laughter, and without flattery.
I walk because I am disgusted with sitting still, and sit down because
I am weary with walking. I have no motive to action, nor any object of
love, or hate, or fear, or inclination. I cannot dress with spirit,
for I have neither rival nor admirer. I cannot dance without a
partner, nor be kind, or cruel, without a lover.

Such is the life of Euphelia, and such it is likely to continue for a
month to come. I have not yet declared against existence, nor called
upon the destinies to cut my thread; but I have sincerely resolved not
to condemn myself to such another summer, nor too hastily to flatter
myself with happiness. Yet I have heard, Mr. Rambler, of those who
never thought themselves so much at ease as in solitude, and cannot
but suspect it to be some way or other my own fault, that, without
great pain, either of mind or body, I am thus weary of myself: that
the current of youth stagnates, and that I am languishing in a dead
calm for want of some external impulse. I shall, therefore, think you
a benefactor to our sex, if you will teach me the art of living alone;
for I am confident that a thousand and a thousand and a thousand
ladies, who affect to talk with ecstasies of the pleasures of the
country, are, in reality, like me, longing for the wint