A man of letters, more intent on the acquisitions of literature than on
the intrigues of politics, or the speculations of commerce, may find a
deeper solitude in a populous metropolis than in the seclusion of the
country.
The student, who is no flatterer of the little passions of men, will not
be much incommoded by their presence. Gibbon paints his own situation in
the heart of the fashionable world:--"I had not been endowed by art or
nature with those happy gifts of confidence and address which unlock
every door and every bosom. While coaches were rattling through
Bond-street, I have passed many a solitary evening in my lodging with my
books. I withdrew without reluctance from the noisy and extensive scene
of crowds without company, and dissipation without pleasure." And even
after he had published the first volume of his History, he observes that
in London his confinement was solitary and sad; "the many forgot my
existence when they saw me no longer at Brookes's, and the few who
sometimes had a thought on their friend were detained by business or
pleasure, and I was proud and happy if I could prevail on my bookseller,
Elmsly, to enliven the dulness of the evening."
A situation, very elegantly described in the beautifully polished verses
of Mr. Rogers, in his "Epistle to a Friend:"
When from his classic dreams the student steals
Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels,
To muse unnoticed, while around him press
The meteor-forms of equipage and dress;
Alone in wonder lost, he seems to stand
A very stranger in his native land.
He compares the student to one of the seven sleepers in the ancient
legend.
Descartes residing in the commercial city of Amsterdam, writing to
Balzac, illustrates these descriptions with great force and vivacity.
"You wish to retire; and your intention is to seek the solitude of the
Chartreux, or, possibly, some of the most beautiful provinces of France
and Italy. I would rather advise you, if you wish to observe mankind,
and at the same time to lose yourself in the deepest solitude, to join
me in Amsterdam. I prefer this situation to that even of your delicious
villa, where I spent so great a part of the last year; for, however
agreeable a country-house may be, a thousand little conveniences are
wanted, which can only be found in a city. One is not alone so
frequently in the country as one could wish: a number of impertinent
visitors are continually besieging you. Here, as all the world, except
myself, is occupied in commerce, it depends merely on myself to live
unknown to the world. I walk every day amongst immense ranks of people,
with as much tranquillity as you do in your green alleys. The men I meet
with make the same impression on my mind as would the trees of your
forests, or the flocks of sheep grazing on your common. The busy hum too
of these merchants does not disturb one more than the purling of your
brooks. If sometimes I amuse myself in contemplating their anxious
motions, I receive the same pleasure which you do in observing those men
who cultivate your land; for I reflect that the end of all their labours
is to embellish the city which I inhabit, and to anticipate all my
wants. If you contemplate with delight the fruits of your orchards, with
all the rich promises of abundance, do you think I feel less in
observing so many fleets that convey to me the productions of either
India? What spot on earth could you find, which, like this, can so
interest your vanity and gratify your taste?"