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CHAPTER V.
"This is to be alone: this—this is solitude."
Byron.
I have heard a great deal said of the cheerfulness of music, lighted rooms, and a gay crowd. I only know, that the most melancholy moments of one's life are passed in such scenes. There is such a feeling of solitude—so much conversation going on in which you can take no interest—so many persons who care not whether you are living or dead—so many forced words and smiles—so much fatigue—such a mockery of gaiety—such a dragging together of strangers, who can have nothing in common—and so much neglect, impertinence, and indifference. A large festival always appears to me a funeral on a grand scale of all human graces, affections, and kindlinesses. Like dancing, it is a remnant of ancient barbarism—fit for the days of the Chaldeans or the Babylonians, when people were only amused through their eyes—the
