more at large from
thence; and now good night to you.

LETTER XXIX

BATH, February 18, O. S. 1748.

DEAR BOY: The first use that I made of my liberty was to come here, where
I arrived yesterday. My health, though not fundamentally bad yet, for
want of proper attention of late, wanted some repairs, which these waters
never fail giving it. I shall drink them a month, and return to London,
there to enjoy the comforts of social life, instead of groaning under the
load of business. I have given the description of the life that I propose
to lead for the future, in this motto, which I have put up in the frize
of my library in my new house:--

Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno, et inertibus horis
Ducere sollicitae jucunda oblivia vitas.

I must observe to you upon this occasion, that the uninterrupted
satisfaction which I expect to find in that library, will be chiefly
owing to my having employed some part of my life well at your age. I wish
I had employed it better, and my satisfaction would now be complete; but,
however, I planted while young, that degree of knowledge which is now my
refuge and my shelter. Make your plantations still more extensive; they
will more than pay you for your trouble. I do not regret the time that I
passed in pleasures; they were seasonable; they were the pleasures of
youth, and I enjoyed them while young. If I had not, I should probably
have overvalued them now, as we are very apt to do what we do not know;
but, knowing them as I do, I know their real value, and how much they are
generally overrated. Nor do I regret the time that I have passed in
business, for the same reason; those who see only the outside of it,
imagine it has hidden charms, which they pant after; and nothing but
acquaintance can undeceive them. I, who have been behind the scenes, both
of pleasure and business, and have seen all the springs and pullies of
those decorations which astonish and dazzle the audience, retire, not
only without regret, but with contentment and satisfaction. But what I
do, and ever shall regret, is the time which, while young, I lost in mere
idleness, and in doing nothing. This is the common effect of the
inconsideracy of youth, against which I beg you will be most carefully
upon your guard. The value of moments, when cast up, is immense, if well
employed; if thrown away, their loss is irrecoverable. Every moment may
be put to some use, and that with much more pleasure, than if unemploy