existence for a period, though not in a very enviable manner.
He took up his abode in a retired quarter of the city where the sunbeams seldom shone, except towards the longest day, when they occasionally glanced over the high-built roofs. Here he found all he looked for in his present altered circumstances. He dined at his host’s frugal board; his fire-side was a protection against the cold; and he had a roof to shelter him from the effects of rain and wind. There was one enemy, however, he could not so well deal with—a killing ennui; here neither stone walls, nor the fire-side, nor the moderate enjoyment of the table, were of much service to him. He had lost a whole host of parasites, who used to do their best to entertain him, and, along with them, his former friends. Reading was then too rare an amusement to kill much time; nor did the honest folks understand the art of weaving love-sick fancies, and other modern innovations, which are usually the product of the shallowest brains. Alas! he had neither sentimental, pedagogical, nor comic romances, to resort to; no popular, moral, and fashionable tales; family and monastic legends were rare; while novels, both new and old, had not then commenced their havoc upon good white paper, and converted the unfortunate race of poor
