IT was on a fine autumnal evening, when the sun was setting serenely behind a thick copse upon a distant hill, and his warm tints were lighting up a magnificent and widely—extended landscape, that, sauntering ’midst the fields, I was meditating upon the various methods of honorably filling up the measure of our existence; when I discovered, towards my left, a messenger running at full speed towards me. The abruptness of his appearance, and the velocity of his step, somewhat disconcerted me; but on his near approach my apprehensions were dissipated.

I knew him to be the servant of my old college friend, whom I chuse here to denominate Lysander. He came to inform me, in his blunt and honest manner, that his master had just arrived with Philemon, our common friend; and that, as they were too fatigued with their journey to come out to me, they begged I would quickly enter the house, and, as usual, make them welcome. This intelligence afforded me the liveliest satisfaction. In fifteen minutes, after a hearty shaking of hands, I was seated with them in the parlour; all of us admiring the unusual splendor of the evening sky, and, in consequence, partaking of the common topics of conversation with a greater flow of spirits.