nature of man, while we are enjoying a little fresh air in the country." Clifford assented to the proposal, and the pair slowly sauntered up one of the hills that surround the city of Bladud.
"There are certain moments," said Tomlinson, looking pensively down at his kerseymere gaiters, "when we are like the fox in the nursery rhyme, 'The fox had a wound he could not tell where'—we feel extremely unhappy and we cannot tell why! a dark, and sad melancholy grows over us—we shun the face of man—we wrap ourselves in our thoughts like silkworms—we mutter fag-ends of dismal songs—tears come in our eyes—we recall all the misfortunes that have ever happened to us—we stoop in our gait, and bury our hands in our breeches pockets—we say 'what is life?—a stone to be shied into a horse-pond!'—We pine for some congenial heart—and have an itching desire to talk prodigiously about ourselves: all other subjects seem weary, stale, and unprofitable—we feel as if a fly could knock us down, and are in a humour to fall in love and make a very sad piece of business of it. Yet with all this weakness we
