In the bosom of this little grove stood a rustic grotto, formed in imitation of an hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with moss and ivy. Seats of turf were placed on either side, and a natural cascade fell from the rock above. Buried in himself the monk approached the spot. The universal calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous tranquillity spread languor through his soul.

He reached the hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when he stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the banks lay a man in a melancholy posture.

His head was supported upon his arm, and he seemed lost in meditation. The monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: he watched him in silence, and entered not the hermitage. After some minutes the youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite wall.

“Yes!” said he with a deep and plaintive sigh; “I feel all the happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I, could I think like thee! Could I look like thee with disgust upon mankind, could bury myself forever in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world holds beings deserving to be loved! Oh God! What a blessing would misanthropy be to me!”

“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the abbot, entering the grotto.

“You here, reverend father?” cried the novice.

At the same time starting from his place in confusion, he drew his cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the bank, and obliged the youth to place himself by him.

“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said he; “What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, misanthropy, of all sentiments the most hateful?”