Others are afraid to be alone, and amuse themselves by a perpetual succession of companions: but the difference is not great; in solitude we have our dreams to ourselves, and in company we agree to dream in concert. The end sought in both is forgetfulness of ourselves. [1] "For half their life," says Aristotle, "the happy differ not from the wretched.".--Nichom. Ethic, i. 13. [Greek: Hypn odunas adaaes, Hypne d algeon Euaaes haemin elthois, Euaion, euaion anax.] Soph. Philoct. 827. No. 33. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1758. [I hope the author of the following letter[1] will excuse the omission of some parts, and allow me to remark, that the Journal of the Citizen in the Spectator has almost precluded the attempt of any future writer.] --_Non ita Romuli Praescriptum, et intonsi Catonis Auspiciis, veterumque normâ_. HOR. Lib. ii. Ode xv. 10. Sir, You have often solicited correspondence. I have sent you the Journal of a Senior Fellow, or Genuine Idler, just transmitted from Cambridge by a facetious correspondent, and warranted to have been transcribed from the common-place book of the journalist. Monday, Nine o'Clock. Turned off my bed-maker for waking me at eight. Weather rainy. Consulted my weather-glass. No hopes of a ride before dinner. Ditto, Ten. After breakfast, transcribed half a sermon from Dr. Hickman. N.B. Never to transcribe any more from Calamy; Mrs. Pilcocks, at my curacy, having one volume of that author lying in her parlour-window. Ditto, Eleven. Went down into my cellar. Mem. My Mountain will be fit to drink in a month's time. N.B. To remove the five-year old port into the new bin on the left hand. Ditto, Twelve. Mended a pen. Looked at my weather-glass again. Quicksilver very low. Shaved. Barber's hand shakes. Ditto, One. Dined alone in my room on a sole. N.B. The shrimp-sauce not so good as Mr. H. of Peterhouse and I used to eat in London last winter at the Mitre in Fleet-street. Sat down to a pint of Madeira. Mr. H. surprised me over it. We finished two bottles of port together, and were very cheerful. Mem. To dine with Mr. H. at Peterhouse next Wednesday. One of the dishes a leg of pork and pease, by my desire. Ditto, Six. Newspaper in the common room. Ditto, Seven. Returned to my room. Made a tiff of warm punch, and to bed before nine; did not fall asleep till ten, a young fellow commoner being very noisy over my head. Tuesday, Nine, Rose squeamish. A fine morning. Weather-glass very high. Ditto, Ten. Ordered my horse, and rode to the five-mile stone on the Newmarket road. Appetite gets better. A pack of hounds, in full cry, crossed the road, and startled my horse. Ditto, Twelve. Drest. Found a letter on my table to be in London the 19th inst. Bespoke a new wig. Ditto, One. At dinner in the hall. Too much water in the soup. Dr. Dry always orders the beef to be salted too much for me.