LETTER CIV.

IT was a favourite saying with a great emperor of antiquity, Remember how small a part you are of the universal nature; how small a moment of the whole duration is appointed for you; and how small a part you are of the object of universal fate, or Providence. *

Men," says the same the same philosopher, "seck retirement in the country, on the sea coasts, or mountains; but this is all, in fact, superfluous; a man may, any hour he pleases, retire into himself; and no where will he find a place of more quiet and leisure, than in his own soul."

This emperor was a wise man; and his observation is not unlike the ingenious French remark, That those who depend on extrinsic things on the merits of their ancestors for example, may be said to search at the root of the tree for those fruits, which the branches alone ought to produce. Before you get into the practice, however, of retiring into this snug little internal boudoir, let me recommend to you not to be

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* Marcus Aurelius.

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over-weeningly satisfied with what you have already gained from study, or even from speculation; not to become the determined student, or the blind admirer; and so to substitute the knowledge of books for the inquisitive and animated spirit, in which those very books most probably originated.

Curiosity is. in great and generous minds, the first passion, and the last; and perhaps always predominates in proportion to the strength of the contemplative faculties. He who comprehends all that is before him, and soon exhausts any single subject, is always eager for new inquiries; and as far as the intellectual eye takes in a wider prospect, it must be gratified with variety, by more rapid flights, and bolder excursions; nor perhaps can there be proposed to those, who have been accustomed to the pleasures of inquiry, a more powerful incitement to any undertaking, than the hope of filling their imagination with new images, of clearing their doubts and enlightening their reason. How readily thus are terrors and apprehensions, even in the most timid, to be dispersed by the allurements of expectation, or the enjoyment of hitherto untasted gratification!

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There are, indeed, characters possessing little, if any thing, more than the vis inertia, if I be allowed the expression, of matter; who having more power than will, constantly excuse themselves to themselves, by the supposition that the thing is impossible, or truly not worth the trouble. Greatness, however, is nothing more, than an aggregate of little things, or, according to the Arabian proverb, "It is drop added to drop, which constitutes the ocean." All the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder, are instances of this irresistible force of perseverance. To their reason and spirit, therefore, men should add the determination of, persisting in their purposes. He, who would gain a reputation, superior to the names hourly swept away among the refuse of fame, should acquire the art of sapping what he cannot batter, and the habit of vanquishing obstinate resistance by obstinate attacks.*

Time is the wise man's estate: an estate, which will produce nothing without cultivation, but which will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence. That which is inevitably appropriated

*Dr. Johnson.

appropriated to the demands of nature, or irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny of custom, is, in truth, very considerable. And therefore we should always recollect, that he who runs against time, has an antagonist not subject to casualties.

The certainty that life cannot be long, ought to awaken every man to an active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. At the same time, it is as clear, that no diligence is absolutely certain of success, and that death may intercept the swiftest career. But, he who is even cut off in the execution of an honest undertaking, has at least the honour of falling in his ranks he has fought the battle, though he has missed the victory.

And here you must pardon me for making an abrupt application; and as we are drawing to a close, for making that application immediately to yourself. Nor, indeed, is it possible for you to do otherwise; for do I not know that' you have well followed up the plan you had prescribed to yourself, and that you are now on the point of returning to us, as the young bee to the parent hive, loaded with the choicest and most careful selection of the sweets of the various

cmes you have visited. Forgive the enthusiasm, but how often do I not picture you to myself seated upon the summit of one of the highest Alps; there breathing a serene air, elevated above all low and terrestrial affections; disengaged almost, as it were, from matter, and for the moment rid of the vexation and torment of human extravagancy. At other times I can fancy you contemplating a dance of death, or smiling at the shadowy existence, or boisterous nothingness, of nations. Do you not remember the cottages of the undoubted, and now only real descendants of the old Romans, those masters of the universe, stuck up like bird cages, on Mont Pilate, near Lucerne? Or the still more illustrious dwellings of the people of Gersau, the smallest republic, without doubt, in the world? A territory only two leagues long, and one league wide; and yet possessed of its independent magistrates, its landamman, its council of regency, its courts of justice, and its troops.

But la danse des morts, at Basil, must, I am certain, as often as it recurs to your memory, set the whole machine of philosophy at work. But no matter. The origin of this dance was curious. In many churches of France, there was an ancient shew or mimickry, in which all

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