ts or draw a veil over it, making of his life
one long dream of quiet! _Horas non numero nisi serenas_--he might
repeat, when the heavens were overcast and the gathering storm
scattered the falling leaves, and turn to his books and wrap himself
in his golden studies! Out of some mood of mind, indolent, elegant,
thoughtful, this exquisite device (speaking volumes) must have
originated.

Of the several modes of counting time, that by the sun-dial is perhaps
the most apposite and striking, if not the most convenient or
comprehensive. It does not obtrude its observations, though it "morals
on the time," and, by its stationary character, forms a contrast to
the most fleeting of all essences. It stands _sub dio_--under the
marble air, and there is some connexion between the image of infinity
and eternity. I should also like to have a sunflower growing near it
with bees fluttering round.[36] [Footnote 36: Is this a verbal
fallacy? Or in the close, retired, sheltered scene which I have
imagined to myself, is not the sun-flower a natural accompaniment of
the sun-dial?] It should be of iron to denote duration, and have a
dull, leaden look. I hate a sun-dial made of wood, which is rather
calculated to show the variations of the seasons, than the progress of
time, slow, silent, imperceptible, chequered with light and shade. If
our hours were all serene, we might probably take almost as little
note of them, as the dial does of those that are clouded. It is the
shadows thrown across, that gives us warning of their flight.
Otherwise our impressions would take the same undistinguishable hue;
we should scarce be conscious of our existence. Those who have had
none of the cares of this life to harass and disturb them, have been
obliged to have recourse to the hopes and fears of the next to enliven
the prospect before them. Most of the methods for measuring the lapse
of time have, I believe, been the contrivance of monks and religious
recluses, who, finding time hang heavy on their hands, were at some
pains to see how they got rid of it. The hour-glass is, I suspect, an
older invention; and it is certainly the most defective of all. Its
creeping sands are not indeed an unapt emblem of the minute, countless
portions of our existence; and the manner in which they gradually
slide through the hollow glass and diminish in number till not a
single one is left, also illustrates the way in which our years slip
from us by stealth: but as a mechani