t you are
not rich.

Is knowledge the pearl of price? That too may be purchased--by steady
application, and long solitary hours of study and reflection. Bestow
these, and you shall be wise. "But" (says the man of letters) "what a
hardship is it that many an illiterate fellow who cannot construe the
motto of the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure,
while I have little more than the common conveniences of life." _Et tibi
magni satis_!--Was it in order to raise a fortune that you consumed the
sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich that
you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from
the Greek and Roman spring? You have then mistaken your path, and ill
employed your industry. "What reward have I then for all my labors?"
What reward! A large, comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears
and perturbations and prejudices; able to comprehend and interpret the
works of man--of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant
with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual
spring of fresh ideas; and the conscious dignity of superior
intelligence. Good heaven! and what reward can you ask besides?

"But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Providence that such a
one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to
buy half a nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean, dirty
fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his
liberty, for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your
head and blush in his presence because he outshines you in equipage and
show? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, I
have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought,
because I have not desired them; it is because I possess something
better. I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied.

You are a modest man--you love quiet and independence, and have a
delicacy and reserve in your temper which renders it impossible for you
to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be
content then with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate
friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate,
ingenuous spirit; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world to
those who can better scramble for them.

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict regard to the
rules of morality makes