ort of chance, and the slaves of misery.

Thus, they rose in the morning, and lay down at night, pleased with each
other and with themselves, all but Rasselas, who, in the twenty-sixth
year of his age, began to withdraw himself from their pastimes and
assemblies, and to delight in solitary walks, and silent meditation. He
often sat before tables, covered with luxury, and forgot to taste the
dainties that were placed before him: he rose abruptly in the midst of
the song, and hastily retired beyond the sound of musick. His attendants
observed the change, and endeavoured to renew his love of pleasure: he
neglected their officiousness, repulsed their invitations, and spent day
after day, on the banks of rivulets, sheltered with trees; where he
sometimes listened to the birds in the branches, sometimes observed the
fish playing in the stream, and anon cast his eyes upon the pastures and
mountains filled with animals, of which some were biting the herbage,
and some sleeping among the bushes.

This singularity of his humour made him much observed. One of the sages,
in whose conversation he had formerly delighted, followed him secretly,
in hope of discovering the cause of his disquiet. Rasselas, who knew not
that any one was near him, having, for some time, fixed his eyes upon
the goats that were browsing among the rocks, began to compare their
condition with his own. "What," said he, "makes the difference between
man and all the rest of the animal creation? Every beast, that strays
beside me, has the same corporal necessities with myself: he is hungry,
and crops the grass, he is thirsty and drinks the stream, his thirst and
hunger are appeased, he is satisfied and sleeps: he rises again and is
hungry, he is again fed, and is at rest. I am hungry and thirsty, like
him, but when thirst and hunger cease, I am not at rest; I am, like him,
pained with want, but am not, like him, satisfied with fulness. The
intermediate hours are tedious and gloomy; I long again to be hungry,
that I may again quicken my attention. The birds peck the berries, or
the corn, and fly away to the groves, where they sit, in seeming
happiness, on the branches, and waste their lives in tuning one unvaried
series of sounds. I, likewise, can call the lutanist and the singer, but
the sounds, that pleased me yesterday, weary me to-day, and will grow
yet more wearisome to-morrow. I can discover within me no power of
perception, which is not glutted with its prope