this delicious quiet, this serenity of rural enjoyment, the one admitted happiness of human existence: that which the statesman craves, and the philosopher holds forth, as the golden secret of life?"
"Statesmen and philosophers too," replied Lord Norbourne, "often talk a great deal of nonsense. Half of what are called our finest sentiments originate in the necessity of rounding a sentence. Lord Bolingbroke writes, with an eloquence which would make an enthusiast rave, about the dignity and delight of retirement: I do not find that he intrigues with one atom less of activity to obtain a place in the ministry."
"Do you know him?" asked Norbourne, eagerly.
"Ah! he is one of your idols, I suppose," said Lord Norbourne, with a slight approach to a sneer. "Youth is prone to admire; but it is odd how, in a few years, we discover the defects of our demigods. At first we look only to the head of the image, which is of gold: we soon find the necessity of looking down to
