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 Honor, fame, and pleasure are conceived to accompany an
invitation to the board of luxury; although disease, with leaden
sceptre, is known to preside; and reproach and calumny are
indiscriminately cast upon the purest characters. But he who feels
the least energy of mind, turns with aversion from all society which
tends to weaken its effect; and finds the simplest fare, enjoyed with
freedom and content amidst a happy and affectionate family, ten
thousand times more agreeable than the rarest dainty, and the
richest wine, with a society where he must sit ceremoniously silent in
compliment to some reputed wit, from whose lips nothing but
absurdities and nonsense proceed.
The spiritless and crowded societies of the world, where a round
of low and trifling amusements fills the hour of entertainment, and
where to display a pomp of dress and levity of manners is the only
ambition, may afford some pleasure to those light and empty minds
who are impatient of the weight of idleness; but the wise man, who
occasionally resorts to them in search of rational conversation or
temporary amusement, and only finds a dull unvaried jargon, and a
tiresome round of compliments, will turn with aversion from these
temples of false delight, and exclaim, in the language of the poet,

“I envy none their pageantry and show,

I envy none the gilding of their wo.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate or servile grandeur there:
The pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest;
The sense is ravish’d and the soul is blest:
On every thorn, delightful wisdom glows,
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.”

True social pleasure is founded on unlimited confidence, on an

affectionate and reciprocal interchange of sentiment and opinions. A
tender, faithful, refined, and rational friendship, renders the
pleasures of the world spiritless and disgusting. How joyfully do we
disencumber ourselves from the shackles of society, for that close
and sublime intercourse in which our inclinations are free, our
feelings generous, our sentiments unbiassed; where a mutuality of
thought and action, of pleasure and of pains uninterruptedly prevail;
where the gentle hand of love conducts us along the paths of truth
and virtue; where every thought is anticipated before it escapes
from the lips; where advice, consolation, and succor, are reciprocally
given and received in all the accidents and in all the misfortunes of
life! The soul, touched by the charms of friendship, springs from its
apathy and dejection, and views the enlivening beam of hope
awakening it to activity. The happy pair, casting a retrospective
glance on the time passed, mutually exclaim with the tenderest
emotions, “Oh the delights that we have already experienced!—Oh
the joys that we have already felt!” If the tear of affliction steal
down the cheek of the one, the other with affection wipes it tenderly
away. The sorrows of one are felt with equal sensibility by the other:
and what sorrow will not an intercourse of hearts so closely and
affectionately united, entirely subdue!—Day after day they
communicate to each other all they have seen, all they have heard,
all that they feel, and every thing that they know. Time flies before
them on his swiftest pinions. They are never tired of each other’s
company and conversation. The only misfortune they fear, the
greatest indeed they can possibly experience, is the misfortune of
being separated by occasional absence or untimely death.
But human happiness is continually exposed to interruption. At the
very moment alas; when we vainly think ourselves the most secure,
fate, by a sudden blow, strikes its unhappy victim even in our arms.
All the pleasure of life then seems forever extinguished, every object
alarms our mind, and every place seems desert and forlorn. In vain
are our arms extended to embrace our loved, though lost
companion; in vain do we invoke her return. Her well known step
still seems to beat upon the listening ear, and promise her approach;
but suspended sense returns, and the delusive sounds are heard no
more. A death-like silence reigns around, and involves us in the
shades of dreary solitude, unconscious of every thing but our
bleeding hearts. Wearied and dejected, we imagine ourselves no
longer capable of loving or of being beloved; and life without love, to
the heart that has once felt its pleasures, is more terrible than
death. So sudden a transition from the highest happiness to the
deepest misery overpowers the mind. No kind friend appears to
assuage our sufferings, or seems capable of forming an adequate
idea of our distress. The pangs, indeed, which such a loss inflicts,
cannot be conceived, unless they have been felt. The only
consolation of the unhappy sufferer is to live in solitude, and his only
wish to die alone. But it is under circumstances like these that
solitude enjoys its greatest triumph, and the afflicted sufferer
receives the greatest benefits; for there is no sorrow, however great,
no pang, however powerful, that it will not, when wisely indulged, at
first soften, and at length subdue. The remedy which solitude
“administers to a mind diseased,” is slow and gradual; for the art of
living alone requires much experience, is subject to so many
casualties, and depends so materially upon the temperament of the
patient, that it is necessary we should attain a complete maturity
before any great advantages can be derived from it. But he who is
able to throw off the galling yoke of prejudice, and possesses a
natural esteem and fondness for retirement, will not be embarrassed
as to the choice he ought to make under such circumstances.
Indifferent to external objects, and averse from the dissipations of
the world, he will rely on the powers of his mind, and will never be
less alone than when he is in the company of himself.
Men of genius are frequently condemned to employments as
disagreeable to the turn and temper of their minds, as the most
nauseous medicine must be to an empty stomach. Confined to toil
on a dry and disgusting subject, fixed to a particular spot, and
harassed by subordinate duties, they relinquish all expectation of
tranquillity on this side the grave. Deprived of enjoying the common
pleasures of nature, every object increases their disgust. “It is not
for us,” they exclaim, “that the youthful zephyrs call forth the
budding foliage with their caressing breath; that the feathered choir
chant in enlivening strains their rural songs; that the verdant
meadows are decked with fragrant flowers.” But set these
complainers free, give them liberty and leisure to think for
themselves, and the enthusiasm of their minds will soon regenerate,
and soar into the highest regions of intellectual happiness, with the
bold wing and penetrating eye of the bird of Jove.
If solitude be capable of dissipating the afflictions of persons thus
circumstanced, what may not be expected from its influence on
those who are enabled to retire, at pleasure, to its friendly shades,
and who have no other wish than to enjoy pure air and domestic
felicity! When Antisthenes was asked what advantages philosophy
had afforded him, he answered, “It has taught me to subdue
myself.” Pope says, he never laid his head upon his pillow, without
acknowledging that the most important lesson of life is to learn the
art of being happy within ourselves. And it seems to me that we
shall all find what Pope looked for, when home is our content, and
every thing about us, even to the dog and the cat, partakes of our
affection.
Health is certainly essential to happiness, and yet there are
circumstances and situations, under which the privation of it may be
attended with tranquillity.
How frequently have I returned thanks to God, when indisposition
has prevented me from going abroad, and enabled me to recruit my
weakened powers in solitude and silence! Obliged to drag through
the streets of the metropolis day after day during a number of years,
feeble in constitution, weak in limbs; susceptible, on feeling the
smallest cold, to the same sensation as if knives were separating the
flesh from the bone; continually surrounded, in the course of my
profession, with the most afflicting sorrows; it is not surprising that I
should thank the Almighty with tears of gratitude, on experiencing
even the relief which a confinement by indisposition procured. A
physician, if he possesses sensibility, must, in his anxiety to relieve
the sufferings of others, frequently forget his own. But, alas! how
frequently must he feel all the horrors of his situation, when he is
summoned to attend patients whose maladies are beyond the reach
of medicine! Under such circumstances, the indisposition which
excuses my attendance, and leaves me the powers of thought,
affords me comparatively a sweet repose; and, provided I am not
disturbed by the polite interruptions of ceremonious visiters, I enjoy
a pleasing solitude. One single day passed undisturbed at home in
literary leisure, affords to the mind more real pleasure than all the
circles of fashionable entertainment are able to bestow.
The fear of being alone is no longer felt either by the young or
old, whenever the mind has acquired the power of employing itself
in some useful or agreeable study. Ill humor may be banished by
adopting a regular course of reading. Books, indeed, cannot be
inspected without producing a beneficial effect, provided we always
read with a pen or pencil in our hand, and note down the new ideas
that may occur, or the observations which confirm the knowledge we
before possessed; for reading becomes not only useless, but
fatiguing, unless we apply the information it affords either to our
own characters, or to those of other men. This habit, however, may
be easily acquired; and then books become one of the most safe
and certain antidotes to lassitude and discontent. By this means a
man becomes his own companion, and finds his best and most
cheerful friend in his own heart.
Pleasures of this kind certainly surpass in a great degree all those
which result merely from the indulgence of the senses. The
pleasures of the mind, generally speaking, signify sublime
meditation, the profound deductions of reason, and the brilliant
effusions of the imagination; but there are also others, for the
perfect enjoyment of which, neither extensive knowledge nor
extraordinary talents are necessary. Such are the pleasures which
result from active labor; pleasures equally within the reach of the
ignorant and learned, and not less exquisite than those which result
from the mind. Manual exertions, therefore, ought never to be
despised. I am acquainted with gentlemen who understand the
mechanism of their watches, who are able to work as painters,
locksmiths, carpenters, and who are not only possessed of the tools
and implements of every trade, but know how to use them. Such
men never feel the least disquietude from the want of society, and
are in general the happiest characters in existence.
Mental pleasures are within the reach of all persons who, free,
tranquil, and affectionate, are contented with themselves, and at
peace with their fellow-creatures. The mind contemplates the pranks
of school, the sprightly aberrations of our boyish days, the wanton
stories of early youth, our plays and pastimes, and all the little hopes
and fears of infancy, with fond delight. Oh! with what approving
smiles and soft regret, the aged cast their eyes upon those happy
times when youthful inclination prompted all their actions, when
every enterprise was undertaken with lively vigor, and executed with
undaunted courage; when difficulties were sought merely for the
purpose of surmounting them! Let us compare what we were
formerly with what we are at present; or rather, by giving our
thoughts a freer range, reflect on the various events we have
experienced or observed; upon the means that the Almighty employs
to raise or sink the prosperity of empires; upon the rapid progress
made, even in our time, in every art and science; upon the diffusion
of useful knowledge, and the destruction of dangerous prejudices;
upon the empire which barbarism and superstition have gained,
notwithstanding the exertions of genius and reason to prevent them;
upon the sublime power of the human mind and its inefficient
productions; and languor will instantly disappear, and tranquillity,
peace, and good humor prevail.
Thus advantage may in solitude be attained and relished at every
period of our lives; at the most advanced age, as well as during the
vigor of youth. He who to an unbroken constitution joins a free and
contented mind, and assiduously cultivates the powers of his
understanding, will, if his heart be innocent, at all times enjoy the
purest and most unalterable pleasures. Employment animates all the
functions of the soul, and calls forth their highest energies. It is the
secret consciousness which every person of a lively imagination
possesses, of the powers of the mind, and the dignity they are
capable of attaining, that creates the noble anxiety and ardor, which
carries their efforts to the sublimest heights. But if, either by duty or
situation, we maintain too close an intercourse with society, if we are
obliged, in spite of inclination, to submit to frivolous and fatiguing
dissipations, it is only by quitting the tumult, and entering into silent
meditation, that we feel that effervescence, that desire to break
from bondage, to fly from past errors, and avoid in future every
noisy and tumultuous pleasure.
The mind never feels with more energy and satisfaction that it
lives, that it is rational, great, active, free, and immortal, than during
those moments in which it excludes idle and impertinent intruders.
Of all the vexations of life, there are none so insupportable, as
those insipid visits, those annoying partialities, which occupy the
time of frivolous and fashionable characters. “My thoughts,” says
Rousseau, “will only come when they please, and not when I
choose:” and therefore the intrusions of strangers, or of mere
acquaintances, were always extremely odious to him. It was for this
reason alone that this extraordinary character, who seldom
experienced an hour of tranquillity, felt such indignation against the
importunate civilities and empty compliments of common
conversation, whilst he enjoyed the rational intercourse of sensible
and well-informed minds with the highest delight. How frequently
are the brightest beams of intellect obscured by associating with low
and little minds! How frequently do the soundest understandings
become frivolous, by keeping frivolous company! For, although these
bright beams are immediate emanations from the Deity on the mind
of man, they must be matured by meditation and reflection, before
they can give elevation to genius, and consistency to character.
Virtues to which the mind cannot rise even when assisted by the
most advantageous intercourse, are frequently the fruits of solitude.
Deprived for ever of the company and conversation of those whom
we love and esteem, we endeavor to charm the uneasy void by
every effort in our power; but while love and friendship lead us by
the hand, and cherish us by their care, we lean incessantly on their
bosoms, and remain inert. Solitude, were it for this reason alone, is
indispensably necessary to the human character; for when men are
enabled to depend on themselves alone, the soul, tossed about by
the tempest of life, acquires new vigor; learns to bear with
constancy, or avoid with address, those dangerous rocks on which
vulgar minds are inevitably wrecked; and discovers continually new
resources, by which the mind resists, with stoic courage, the rigors
of its fate.
Weak minds always conceive it most safe to adopt the sentiments
of the multitude. They never venture to express an opinion upon any
subject until the majority have decided; and blindly follow the
sentiments of the many, whether upon men or things, without
troubling themselves to inquire who are right, or on which side truth
preponderates. A love of equity and truth, indeed, is seldom found,
except in those who have no dread of solitude. Men of dissipation
never protect the weak, or avenge the oppressed. If the various and
powerful hosts of knaves and fools are your enemies; if you have
been injured in your property by injustice, or traduced in your fame
by calumny, you must not fly for protection and redress to men of
light and dissipated characters; for they are merely the organs of
error, and the conduit pipes of prejudice.
The knowledge of ourselves is in solitude more easily and
effectually acquired than in any other situation; for we there live in
habits of the strictest intimacy with our own bosoms. It is certainly
possible for men to be deliberate and wise, even amidst all the
tumultuous folly of the world, especially if their principles be well
fixed before they enter on the stage of life; but integrity is
undoubtedly more easily preserved in the innocent simplicity of
solitude, than in the corrupted intercourses of society. In the world
how many men please only by their vices! How many profligate
villains, and unprincipled adventurers of insinuating manners, are
well received only because they have learnt the art of administering
to the follies, the weaknesses, and the vices of others! The mind,
intoxicated with the fumes of that incense which artful flattery is
continually offering to it, is rendered incapable of justly appreciating
the characters of men. On the contrary, we truly discover in the
silence of solitude, the inward complexion of the heart; and learn
not only what the characters of men are, but what in truth and
nature they ought to be.
How many new and useful discoveries may be made by
occasionally forcing ourselves from the vortex of the world, and
retiring to the calm enjoyments of study and reflection! To
accomplish this end, it is only necessary to commence seriously with
our hearts, and to examine our actions with impartiality. The worldly-
minded man, indeed, has reason to avoid this self-examination, for
the result would in all probability be painful to his feelings; as he
who only judges of himself by the flattering opinions which others
may have expressed of his character, will, in such a scrutiny, behold
with surprise that he is the miserable slave of habit and public
opinion; submitting himself with scrupulous exactness, and the best
possible grace, to the tyranny of fashion and established ceremony;
never venturing to oppose their influence, however ridiculous and
absurd it may be; and obsequiously following the example of others,
without daring to resist pursuits which every one seems so highly to
approve. He will perceive, that almost all his thoughts and actions
are engendered by a base fear of himself, or arise from a servile
complaisance to others; that he only seeks to flatter the vanities,
and indulge the caprices of his superiors, and becomes the
contemptible minister of these men, without daring to offer them the
smallest contradiction, or hazard an opinion that is likely to give
them the least displeasure. Whoever, with calm consideration, views
this terrifying picture, will feel, in the silent emotions of his heart,
the necessity of occasionally retiring into solitude, and seeking
society with men of nobler sentiments and purer principles.
Let every one, therefore, who wishes to think with dignity, or live
with ease, seek the retreats of solitude, and enter into a friendly
intercourse with his own heart. How small a portion of true
philosophy, with an enlightened understanding, will render it humble
and compliant! But in the mists of prejudice, dazzled by the
intellectual glimmer of false lights, every one mistakes the true path,
and seeks for happiness in the shades of darkness, and in the
labyrinths of obscurity. The habits of retirement and tranquillity can
alone enable us to make a just estimate of men and things, and it is
by renouncing all the prepossessions which the corruptions of
society have implanted in the mind, that we make the first advances
toward the restoration of reason, and the attainment of felicity.
We have hitherto only pointed out one class of the general
advantages which may be derived from rational solitude, but there
are many others which apply still more closely to men’s business and
bosoms. Who, alas! is there that has not experienced its comforting
influence in the keenest adversities of life? Who is there that does
not seek relief from its friendly shades in the langors of
convalescence, in the pangs of affliction, and even in that distressful
moment when death deprives us of those whose company was the
charm and solace of our lives? Happy are they who know the
advantages of a religious retirement, of that holy rest in which the
virtues rivet themselves more closely to the soul, and in which every
man, when he is on the bed of death, devoutly wishes he had lived.
But these advantages become more conspicuous, when we
compare the manner of thinking which employs the mind of a
solitary philosopher with that of a worldly sensualist; the tiresome
tumultuous life of the one, with the ease and tranquillity of the
other; the horrors which disturb the death bed of vice, with the calm
sigh which accompanies the expiring soul of virtue. This is the awful
moment in which we feel how important it is to commune morally
with ourselves, and religiously with our Creator; to enable us to bear
the sufferings of life with dignity, and the pains of death with ease.
The sick, the sorrowful, and the discontented, may find equal
relief in solitude; it administers a balm to their tortured souls, heals
the deep and painful wounds they have received, and in time
restores them to their pristine health and vigor. The deceitful shrine
in which the intoxication of sensuality involved health and happiness
disappears, and they behold, in the place of imaginary joys, those
objects only which afford real pleasure. Prosperity arrays every
object in the most glowing and delightful colors; but to adversity
every thing appears black and dismal. Nor are the errors of these
contrary extremes discovered until the moment when the curtain
drops, and dissipates the illusion: the deceitful dream continues until
the imagination is silenced. The unhappy then perceive that the
Almighty was watching over them, even when they conceived
themselves entirely abandoned: the happy then discover the vanity
of those pleasures and amusements to which they surrendered
themselves so implicitly during the intoxication of the world, and
reflect seriously upon their misconduct; upon their present state and
future destiny; and upon the modes most likely to conduct them to
true felicity. How miserable should we be, were the Divine
Providence to grant us every thing we desire! At the very instant
when we conceive all the happiness of our lives annihilated, God,
perhaps, is performing something extraordinary in our favor. Certain
it is, that patience and perseverance will, in solitude, convert the
deepest sorrow into tranquillity and joy. Those objects which, at a
distance, appear menacing, lose, on a nearer approach, their
disagreeable aspect, and, in the event, frequently produce the most
agreeable pleasures. He who tries every expedient, who boldly
opposes himself to every difficulty, who steadily resists every
obstacle, who neglects no exertion within his power, and relies with
confidence on the assistance of God, extracts from affliction both its
poison and its sting, and deprives misfortune of its victory.
Sorrow, misfortune, and sickness, soon render solitude easy and
familiar to our minds. How willingly do we renounce the world, and
become indifferent to all its pleasures, when the insidious eloquence
of the passions is silenced, and our powers are debilitated by
vexation or ill health! It is then we perceive the weakness of those
succors which the world affords. How many useful truths, alas! has
the bed of sickness and sorrow instilled even into the minds of kings
and princes! truths which, in the hour of health, they would have
been unable to learn amidst the deceitful counsels of their pretended
friends. The time, indeed, in which a valetudinarian is capable of
employing his powers with facility and success, in a manner
conformable to his designs, is short, and runs rapidly away. Those
only who enjoy robust health can exclaim, “Time is my own;” for he
who labors under continual sickness and suffering, and whose
avocations depend on the public necessity or caprice, can never say
that he has one moment to himself. He must watch the fleeting
hours as they pass, and seize an interval of leisure when and where
he can. Necessity, as well as reason, convinces him that he must, in
spite of his daily sufferings, his wearied body, or his harassed mind,
firmly resist his accumulating troubles; and, if he would save himself
from becoming the victim of dejection, he must manfully combat the
difficulties by which he is attacked. The more we enervate ourselves,
the more we become the prey of ill health; but determined courage,
and obstinate resistance, frequently renovate our powers; and he
who, in the calm of solitude, vigorously wrestles with misfortune, is,
in the event, sure of gaining the victory.
The influence of the mind upon the body is a consolatory truth to
those who are subject to constitutional complaints. Supported by
this reflection, the efforts of reason continue unsubdued; the
influence of religion maintains its empire; and the lamentable truth,
that men of the finest sensibility, and most cultivated understanding,
frequently possess less fortitude under affliction than the most
vulgar of mankind, remains unknown. Campanella, incredible as it
may seem, suffered by the indulgence of melancholy reflections, a
species of mental torture more painful than any bodily torture could
have produced. I can, however, from my own experience, assert,
that, even in the extremity of distress, every object which diverts the
attention, softens the evils we endure, and frequently drives them
entirely away. By diverting the attention, many celebrated
philosophers have been able not only to preserve a tranquil mind in
the midst of the most poignant sufferings, but have even increased
the strength of their intellectual faculties, in spite of their corporeal
pains. Rousseau composed the greater part of his immortal works
under the continual pressure of sickness and sorrow. Gellert, who,
by his mild, agreeable, and instructive writings, has become the
preceptor of Germany, certainly found, in this interesting occupation,
the secret remedy against melancholy. Mendelsohm, at an age far
advanced in life, and not, in general, subject to dejection, was for a
long time oppressed by an almost inconceivable derangement of the
nervous system; but, by submitting with patience and docility to his
sufferings, he still maintains all the noble and high advantages of
youth. Garve, who was for several years unable to read, to write, or
even to think, has since produced his treatise upon Cicero, in which
this profound writer, so circumspect in all his expressions that he
appears hurt if any improper word escapes his pen, thanks the
Almighty, with a sort of rapture, for the weakness of his constitution,
because it had taught him the extraordinary influence which the
powers of the mind have over those of the body.
Solitude is not merely desirable, but absolutely necessary, to those
characters who possess sensibilities too quick, and imaginations too
ardent, to live quietly in the world, and who are incessantly
inveighing against men and things. Those who suffer their minds to
be subdued by circumstances which would scarcely produce an
emotion in other bosoms; who complain of the severity of their
misfortunes on occasions which others would not feel; who are
dispirited by every occurrence which does not produce immediate
satisfaction and pleasure; who are incessantly tormented by the
illusion of fancy; who are unhinged and dejected the moment
prosperity is out of their view; who repine at what they possess,
from an ignorance of what they really want; whose minds are for
ever veering from one vain wish to another; who are alarmed at
every thing, and enjoy nothing; are not formed for society, and, if
solitude have no power to heal their wounded spirits, are certainly
incurable.
Men who in other respects possess rational minds and pious
dispositions, frequently fall into low spirits and despair; but it is in
general almost entirely their own fault. If it proceed, as is generally
the case, from unfounded fears; if they love to torment themselves
and others on every trivial disappointment or slight indisposition; if
they constantly resort to medicine for that relief which reason alone
can bestow; if they fondly indulge, instead of repressing, these idle
fancies; if, after having endured the most excruciating pains with
patience, and supported the greatest misfortunes with fortitude,
they neither can nor will learn to bear the puncture of the smallest
pin, or those trifling adversities to which human life is unavoidably
subject; they can only attribute their unhappy condition to their own
misconduct; and, although they might, by no very irksome effort of
their understandings, look with an eye of composure and tranquillity
on the multiplied and fatal fires issuing from the dreadful cannon’s
mouth, will continue shamefully subdued by the idle apprehensions
of being fired at by pop-guns.
All these qualities of the soul, fortitude, firmness, and stoic
inflexibility, are much sooner acquired by silent meditation than
amidst the noisy intercourse of mankind, where innumerable
difficulties continually oppose us; where ceremony, servility, flattery,
and fear, contaminate our dispositions; where every occurrence
opposes our endeavors; and where, for this reason, men of the
weakest minds, and the most contracted notions, become more
active and popular, gain more attention, and are better received,
than men of feeling hearts and liberal understandings.
The mind, in short, fortifies itself with impregnable strength in the
bowers of solitary retirement against every species of suffering and
affliction. The frivolous attachments which, in the world, divert the
soul from its proper objects, and drive it wandering, as chance may
direct, into an eccentric void, die away. Contented, from experience,
with the little which nature requires, rejecting every superfluous
desire, and having acquired a complete knowledge of ourselves, the
visitations of the Almighty, when he chastises us with affliction,
humbles our presumptuous pride, disappoints our vain conceits,
restrains the violence of our passions, and makes us sensible of our
inanity and weakness, are received with composure and felt without
surprise. How many important truths do we here learn, of which the
worldly minded man has no idea! Casting the eye of calm reflection
on ourselves, and on the objects around us, how resigned we
become to the lot of humanity! How different every object appears!
The heart expands to every noble sentiment; the bloom of conscious
virtue brightens on the cheek; the mind teems with sublime
conceptions; and, boldly taking the right path, we at length reach
the bowers of innocence, and the plains of peace.
On the death of a beloved friend, we constantly feel a strong
desire to withdraw from society; but our worldly acquaintances unite
in general to destroy this laudable inclination. Conceiving it improper
to mention the subject of our grief, our companions, cold and
indifferent to the event, surround us, and think their duties
sufficiently discharged by paying the tributary visit, and amusing us
with the current topics of the town. Such idle pleasantries cannot
convey a balm of comfort into the wounded heart.
When I, alas! within two years after my arrival in Germany, lost
the lovely idol of my heart, the amiable companion of my former
days, I exclaimed a thousand times to my surrounding friends, Oh!
leave me to myself! Her departed spirit still hovers round me: the
tender recollection of her society, the afflicting remembrance of her
sufferings on my account, are always present to my mind. What
mildness and affability! Her death was as calm and resigned as her
life was pure and virtuous. During five long months, the lingering
pangs of dissolution hung continually around her. One day, as she
reclined upon her pillow, while I read to her “The Death of Christ,”
by Rammler, she cast her eyes over the page, and silently pointed
out to me the following passage; “My breath grows weak, my days
are shortened, my heart is full of affliction, and my soul prepares to
take its flight.” Alas! when I recall all those circumstances to my
mind, and recollect how impossible it was for me to abandon the
world at that moment of anguish and distress, when I carried the
seeds of death within my bosom; when I had neither fortitude to
bear my afflictions, nor courage to resist them, while I was yet
pursued by malice, and traduced by calumny; I can easily conceive,
in such a situation, that my exclamation might be, leave me to
myself. To a heart thus torn by too rigorous a destiny from the
bosom that was opened for its reception; from a bosom in which it
fondly dwelt; from an object that it dearly loved, detached from
every object, at a loss where to fix its affections or communicate its
feelings, solitude alone can administer comfort.
 Solitude, when it has ripened and preserved the tender and
humane feelings of the heart, and created in the mind a salutary
distrust of our vain reason and boasted abilities, may be considered
to have brought us nearer to God. Humility is the first lesson we
learn from reflection, and self distrust the first proof we give of
having obtained a knowledge of ourselves. When, in attending the
duties of my profession, I behold, on the bed of sickness, the efforts
of the soul to oppose its impending dissolution, and discover, by the
increasing torments of the patient, the rapid advances of death;
when I see the unhappy sufferer extend his cold and trembling
hands to thank the Almighty for the smallest mitigation of his pains;
when I hear his utterance choked by intermingled groans, and view
the tender looks, the silent anguish of his attending friends; all my
fortitude abandons me; my heart bleeds; and I tear myself from the
sorrowful scene, only to pour my tears more freely over the
lamentable lot of humanity, to regret the inefficacy of those medical
powers which I am supposed only to have sought with so much
anxiety as a mean of prolonging my own miserable existence,
 “When in this vale of years I backward look,
And miss such numbers, numbers too of such,
Firmer in health, and greener in their age,
And stricter on their guard, and fitter far
To play life’s subtle game, I scarce believe
I still survive: and am I fond of life
Who scarce can think it possible I live?
Alive by miracle! If I am still alive,
Who long have buried what gives life to live.”

The wisdom that teaches us to avoid the snares of the world, is

not to be acquired by the incessant pursuit of entertainments; by
flying, without reflection, from one party to another; by continual
conversation on low and trifling subjects; by undertaking every thing
and doing nothing. “He who would acquire true wisdom,” says a
celebrated philosopher, “must learn to live in solitude.” An
uninterrupted course of dissipation stifles every virtuous sentiment.
The dominion of reason is lost amidst the intoxications of pleasure;
its voice is no longer heard; its authority is no longer obeyed; the
mind no longer strives to surmount temptations; but instead of
shunning the perils which the passions scatter in our way, we run
eagerly to find them. The idea of God, and the precepts of his holy
religion, are never so little remembered as in the ordinary
intercourses of society. Engaged in a multiplicity of absurd pursuits,
entranced in the delirium of gayety, inflamed by the continual ebriety
which raises the passions and stimulates the desires, every
connexion between God and man is dissolved; the bright and noble
faculty of reason obscured; and even the great and important duties
of religion, the only source of true felicity, totally obliterated from the
mind, or remembered only with levity and indifference. On the
contrary, he who, entering into a serious self-examination, elevates
his thoughts in silence toward his God; who consults the theatre of
nature, the spangled firmament of heaven, the meadows enamelled
with flowers, the stupendous mountains, and the silent groves, as
the temples of the Divinity; who directs the emotions of his heart to
the great Author and Conductor of every thing; who has his
enlightened providence continually before his eyes, must, most
assuredly, have already lived in pious solitude and religious
retirement.
The pious disposition which a zealous devotion to God engenders
in solitude, may, it is true, in certain characters, and under particular
circumstances, degenerate into the gloom of superstition, or rise into
the phrenzy of fanaticism; but these excesses soon abate; and,
compared with that fatal supineness which extinguishes every virtue,
are really advantageous. The sophistry of the passions is silent
during the serious hours of self-examination, and the perturbations
we feel on the discovery of our errors and defects, is converted by
the light of a pure and rational faith, into happy ease and perfect
tranquillity. The fanatic enthusiast presents himself before the
Almighty much oftener than the supercilious wit who derides an holy
religion, and calls piety a weakness. Philosophy and morality become
in solitude the handmaids of religion, and join their powers to
conduct us into the bowers of eternal peace. They teach us to
examine our hearts, and exhort us to guard against the dangers of
fanaticism. But if virtue cannot be instilled into the soul without
convulsive efforts, they also admonish us not to be intimidated by
the apprehension of danger. It is not in the moment of joy, when we
turn our eyes from God and our thoughts from eternity, that we
experience those salutary fervors of the soul, which even religion,
with all her powers, cannot produce so soon as a mental affliction or
a corporeal malady. The celebrated M. Grave, one of the greatest
philosophers of Germany, exclaimed to Dr. Spalding and myself, “I
am indebted to my malady for having led me to make a closer
scrutiny and more accurate observation on my own character.”
In the last moments of life, it is certain that we all wish we had
passed our days in greater privacy and solitude, in stricter intimacy
with ourselves, and in closer communion with God. Pressed by the
recollection of our errors, we then clearly perceive that they were
occasioned by not having shunned the snares of the world, and by
not having watched with sufficient care over the inclinations of our
hearts. Oppose the sentiments of a solitary man, who has passed his
life in pious conference with God, to those which occupy a worldly
mind, forgetful of its Creator, and sacrificing its dearest interests to
the enjoyment of the moment: compare the character of a wise
man, who reflects in silence on the importance of eternity, with that
of a fashionable being, who consumes all his time at ridottos, balls,
and assemblies; and we shall then perceive that solitude, dignified
retirement, select friendships, and rational society, can alone afford
true pleasure, and give us what all the vain enjoyments of the world
will never bestow, consolation in death, and hope of everlasting life.
But the bed of death discovers most clearly the difference between
the just man, who has quietly passed his days in religious
contemplation, and the man of the world, whose thoughts have only
been employed to feed his passions and gratify his desires. A life
passed amidst the tumultuous dissipations of the world, even when
unsullied by the commission of any positive crime, concludes, alas!
very differently from that which has been spent in the bowers of
solitude, adorned by innocence, and rewarded by virtue.
But, as example teaches more effectually than precept, and
curiosity is more alive to recent facts than remote illustrations, I shall
here relate the history of a man of family and fashion, who a few
years since shot himself in London; from which it will appear, that
men possessed even of the best feelings of the heart, may be
rendered extremely miserable, by suffering their principles to be
corrupted by the practice of the world.
The honorable Mr. Damer, the eldest son of Lord Milton, was five
and thirty years of age when he put a period to his existence by
means perfectly correspondent to the principles in which he had
lived. He was married to a rich lady, the daughter-in-law of General
Conway. Nature had endowed him with extraordinary talents; but a
most infatuated fondness for excessive dissipation obscured the
brightest faculties of his mind, and perverted many of the excellent
qualities of the heart. His houses, his carriages, his horses, and his
liveries, surpassed in splendor and magnificence every thing
sumptuous and costly even in the superb and extravagant metropolis
of Great Britain. The fortune he possessed was great; but the variety
of lavish expenditures in which he engaged exceeded his income,
and he was reduced at length to the necessity of borrowing money.
He raised, in different ways, near forty thousand pounds, the greater
part of which he employed with improvident generosity in relieving
the distresses of his less opulent companions; for his heart
overflowed with tenderness and compassion; but this exquisite
sensibility, which was ever alive to the misfortunes of others, was at
length awakened to his own embarrassed situation; and his mind
driven by the seeming irretrievable condition of his affairs, to the
utmost verge of despair. Retiring to a common brothel, he sent for
four women of the town, and passed several hours in their company
with apparent good spirits and unencumbered gayety; but, when the
dead of night arrived, he requested of them, with visible dejection,
to retire; and immediately afterward drawing from his pocket a
pistol, which he had carried about him the whole afternoon, blew
out his brains. It appeared that he had passed the evening with
these women in the same manner as he had been used to pass
many others with different women of the same description, without
demanding favours which they would most willingly have granted,
and only desiring, in return for the money he lavished on them, the
dissipation of their discourse, or at most, the ceremony of a salute,
to divert the sorrow that preyed upon his tortured mind. But the
gratitude he felt for the temporary oblivion which these intercourses
afforded, sometimes ripened into feelings of the warmest friendship.
A celebrated actress of the London theatre, whose conversations
had already drained him of considerable sums of money, requested
of him, only three days before his death, to send her five and twenty
guineas. At that moment he had only ten guineas about him; but he
sent her, with an apology for his inability to comply immediately with
her request, all he had, and soon afterward borrowed the remainder
of the money, and sent it to her without delay. This unhappy young
man, shortly before the fatal catastrophe, had written to his father,
and disclosed to him the distressed situation he was in; and the very
night on which he terminated his existence, his affectionate parent,
the good Lord Milton, arrived in London, for the purpose of
discharging all the debts, and arranging the affairs of his unhappy
son. Thus lived and died this destitute and dissipated man! How
different from that life which the innocent live, or that death which
the virtuous die!
I hope I may be permitted in this place to relate the story of a
young lady whose memory I am extremely anxious to preserve; for I
can with great truth say of her, as Petrarch said of his beloved Laura,
“the world was unacquainted with the excellence of her character:
for she was only known to those whom she has left behind to bewail
her loss.” Solitude was all the world she knew; for her only pleasures
were those which a retired and virtuous life affords. Submitting with
pious resignation to the dispensations of heaven, her weak frame
sustained, with steady fortitude, every affliction of mortality. Mild,
good, and tender, she endured her sufferings without a murmur or
sigh; and although naturally timid and reserved, disclosed the
feelings of her soul with all the warmth of filial enthusiasm. Of this
description was the superior character of whom I now write; a
character who convinced me, by her fortitude under the severest
misfortunes, how much strength solitude is capable of conveying to
the mind even of the feeblest being. Diffident of her own powers,
she listened to the precepts of a fond parent, and relied with perfect
confidence on the goodness of God. Taught by my experience,
submitting to my judgment, she entertained for me the most ardent
affection; and convinced me, not by professions, but by actions, of
her sincerity. Willingly would I have sacrificed my life to have saved
her; and I am satisfied that she would as willingly have given up her
own for me. I had no pleasure but in pleasing her, and my
endeavors for that purpose were most gratefully returned. A rose
was my favorite flower, and she presented one to me almost daily
during the season. I received it from her hand with the highest
delight, and cherished it as the richest treasure. A malady of almost
a singular kind, a hæmorrhage in the lungs, suddenly deprived me
of the comfort of this beloved child, and tore her from my protecting
arms. From the knowledge I had of her constitution, I immediately
perceived that the disorder was mortal. How frequently during that
fatal day did my wounded, bleeding heart, bend me on my knees
before God to supplicate for her recovery. But I concealed my
feelings from her observation. Although sensible of her danger, she
never discovered the least apprehension of its approach. Smiles
played around her pallid cheeks whenever I entered or quitted the
room; and when worn down by the fatal distemper, a prey to the
most corroding grief, a victim to the sharpest and most intolerable
pains, she made no complaint; but mildly answered all my questions
by some short sentence, without entering into any detail. Her decay
and impending dissolution became obvious to the eye; but to the
last moment of her life, her countenance preserved a serenity
correspondent to the purity of her mind, and the affectionate
tenderness of her heart. Thus I beheld my dear and only daughter,
at the age of five and twenty, after a lingering suffering of nine long,
long months, expire in my arms. So long and so severe an attack
was not necessary to the conquest: she had been the submissive
victim of ill health from her earliest infancy; her appetite was almost
gone when we left Swisserland: a residence which she quitted with
her usual sweetness of temper, and without discovering the smallest
regret: although a young man, as handsome in his person as he was
amiable in the qualities of his mind, the object of her first, her only
affection, a few weeks afterward put a period to his existence.
During the few happy days we passed at Hanover, where she
rendered herself universally respected and beloved, she amused
herself by composing religious prayers, which were afterward found
among her papers, and in which she implores death to afford her a
speedy relief from her pains. During the same period she wrote also
many letters, always affecting, and frequently sublime. They were
couched in expressions of the same desire speedily to reunite her
soul with the Author of her days. The last words that my dear, my
beloved child uttered, amidst the most painful agonies, were these
—“To-day I shall taste the joys of heaven!”
How unworthy of this bright example should we be, if, after having
seen the severest sufferings sustained by a female in the earliest
period of life, and of the weakest constitution, we permitted our
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