The consciousness of his own folly pierced him deeply, and he was
long before he could be reconciled to himself. "The rest of my
time," said he, "has been lost by the crime or folly of my
ancestors, and the absurd institutions of my country; I remember it
with disgust, yet without remorse: but the months that have passed
since new light darted into my soul, since I formed a scheme of
reasonable felicity, have been squandered by my own fault. I have
lost that which can never be restored; I have seen the sun rise and
set for twenty months, an idle gazer on the light of heaven; in
this time the birds have left the nest of their mother, and
committed themselves to the woods and to the skies; the kid has
forsaken the teat, and learned by degrees to climb the rocks in
quest of independent sustenance. I only have made no advances, but
am still helpless and ignorant. The moon, by more than twenty
changes, admonished me of the flux of life; the stream that rolled
before my feet upbraided my inactivity. I sat feasting on
intellectual luxury, regardless alike of the examples of the earth
and the instructions of the planets. Twenty months are passed:
who shall restore them?"

These sorrowful meditations fastened upon his mind; he passed four
months in resolving to lose no more time in idle resolves, and was
awakened to more vigorous exertion by hearing a maid, who had
broken a porcelain cup, remark that what cannot be repaired is not
to be regretted.

This was obvious; and Rasselas reproached himself that he had not
discovered it--having not known, or not considered, how many useful
hints are obtained by chance, and how often the mind, hurried by
her own ardour to distant views, neglects the truths that lie open