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We grant that it is, and a very serious one -- to a mans friends, and to all that have to do with him; but whether the dition of the man himself is so much to be deplored, may admit of a question. eak a little to it, being ourself but lately recovered -- we whisper of it in fidence, reader -- out of a long and desperate fit of the sullens. Was the cure a blessing? The vi which wrought it, came too clearly to leave a scruple of the fanciful injuries -- for they were mere fancies -- which had provoked the humour. But the humour itself was too self-pleasing, while it lasted -- we know how bare we lay ourself in the fession -- to be abandoned all at oh the grounds of it. We still brood over wrongs which we know to have been imaginary; and for our old acquaintance, [p 273] N-----, whom we find to have been a truer friend thaook him for, we substitute some phantom -- a Caius or a Titius -- as like him as we dare to form it, to wreak our yet unsatisfied reses on. It is mortifying to fall at once from <samp>?</samp>the pinnacle of ; to the idea of having been ill-used and aciously treated by an old friend. The first thing to aggrandise a man in his own ceit, is to ceive of himself as ed. There let him fix if he . To undeceive him is to deprive him of the most tig morsel within the range of self-plao flattery e near it. Happy is he who suspects his friend of an injustice; but supremely blest, who thinks all his friends in a spiracy to depress and undervalue him. There is a pleasure (we sing not to the profane) far beyond the reach of all that the world ts joy -- at enduring satisfa in the depths, where the superficial seek it not, of distent. Were we to recite one half of this mystery, which we were let into by our late dissatisfa, all the world would be in love with disrespect; we should wear a slight for a bracelet, and s and acies would be the only matter for courtship. Uo that mysterious book in the Apocalypse, the study of this mystery is unpalatable only in the e. The first sting of a suspi is grievous; but wait -- out of that wound, which to flesh and blood seemed so difficult, there is balm and hoo be extracted. Your friend passed you on such or such a day -- having in his pany ohat you ceived worse than ambiguously disposed towards you, passed you ireet without notice. To be sure he is something shhted; and it was in your power to have accosted him. But facts and sane inferences are trifles to a true adept in the sce of dissatisfa. He must have seen you; and S-----, ith him, must have been the cause of the pt. It galls you, and well it may. But have patience. Go home, and make the worst of it and you are a made man from this time. Shut yourself up, and -- rejeg, as ao your peace, every whispering suggestion that but insihere may be a mistake -- reflect seriously upon the many lesser instances which you had begun to perceive in proof of your friends disaffe towards you. None of them singly was much to the purpose, but the aggregate weight is positive; and you have this last affront to ch them. Thus far the process is any thing but agreeable. B></a>ut now to your relief es in the parative faculty. You jure up all the kind feelings you have had for your friend; what you have been to him, and what you would have been to him, if he would have suffered you; how you defended him in this or that place; and his good name -- his literary reputation, and so forth, was always dearer to you than your own! Your heart [p 274] spite of itself, yearns towards him. You could weep tears of blood but for a restraining pride. How say you? do you not yet begin to apprehend a fort? some allay of sweetness iter waters? Stop not here, nor penuriously cheat yourself of your reversions. You are on vantage ground. Enlarge your speculations, and take in the rest of your friends, as a spark kindles more sparks. Was there one among them, who has not to you proved hollow, false, slippery as water? Begin to think that the relation itself is insistent with mortality. That the very idea of friendship, with its po parts, as honour, fidelity, steadiness, exists but in your single bosom. Image yourself to yourself, as the only possible friend in a world incapable of that <cite></cite>munion. Now the gloom this. The little star of self-love twihat is to ence you through deeper glooms than this. You are not yet at the half point of your elevation. You are not yet, believe me, half sulky enough. Adverting to the world in general, (as these circles in the mind will spread to infinity) reflect with what strange injustice you have beeed in quarters where, (setting gratitude and the expectation of friendly returns aside as chimeras,) you pretended no claim beyond justice, the naked due of all men. Think the very idea ht and fit fled from the earth, or your breast the solitary receptacle of it, till you have swelled yourself into at least one hemisphere: the other being the vast Arabia Stony of your friends and the world aforesaid. To grow bigger every moment in your own ceit, and the world to lessen: to deify yourself at the expense of your species; to judge the world -- this is the acme and supreme point of your mystery -- these the true -- PLEASURES OF SULKINESS. We profess no more of this gra than what ourself experimented on one rainy afternoon in the last week, sulking in our<dfn>?９９ｌib.</dfn> study. roceeded to the penultimate point, at which the true adept seldom stops, where the sideration of be fot is about te in the meditation of general injustice -- when a knock at the door was followed by the entrance of the very friend, whose not seeing of us in the m, (for we will now fess the case our own), an actal ht, had given rise to so much agreeable generalization! To mortify us still more, and take down the whole flattering superstructure which pride had piled upon , he bad brought in his hand the identical S-----, in whose favour we had suspected him of the acy. Asseverations were needless, where the frank manner of them both was victive of the injurious nature of the suspi. We fahat they perceived our embarrassment; but were too proud, or something else, to fess to the secret of it. We had been but too lately in the dition of the ient in Argos: [p 275]Qui se credebat miros audire tragoedos,
In vacuo laetus sessor plausorque theatro --
and could have exclaimed with equal reason against the friendly hands that cured us
Pol me occidistis, amici,
Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas,
Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error.
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