The last Rambler was written in a sad and gloomy hour.
By the public the Rambler was at first very coldly received.
Sometimes a rambler in the wood was attracted by the sound of my axe, and we chatted pleasantly over the chips which I had made.
The tired rambler could rest and warm himself by my fire, the literary amuse himself with the few books on my table, or the curious, by opening my closet door, see what was left of my dinner, and what prospect I had of a supper.
From the first the Rambler was enthusiastically admired by a few eminent men.