138 DEATH OF SWAMMERDAM. 
The Ephemera is the fly which is born but to die, living a single 
hour of love. 
But Swammerdam did not enjoy that hour; and it seems as if he 
spent his too brief life in a state of complete isolation. At the age of 
thirty-six he was already drawing near his end. The depths of 
imagination and universal tenderness in his nature could not be 
alimented by the barren controversies of the age. In this condition 
there accidentally fell into his hand an unknown work,—a-woman’s 
book. This sweet voice spoke to his very soul, and somewhat con- 
soled him. It was one of the opuscula of a celebrated mystic of that 
age, Mademoiselle Bourignon. 
Poor as was Swammerdam, he undertook a pilgrimage to Germany, 
where she resided, and went to see his consoler. He found in the jour- 
ney a very real assistance in escaping at the least from his contention 
with the savants, his rivals, in forgetting every collision, and in remit- 
ting to God alone his defence and his discoveries. 
He longed to withdraw himself into a profound solitude. For this 
purpose it was necessary he should dispose of the dear and precious 
cabinet on which he had spent his days, in which he had enshrined his 
heart, and which had at length become a portion of himself. He must 
tear himself from it. At this cost he calculated that he would obtain 
a revenue sufficient for his wants; but the very loss and separation he 
longed for he could not undergo. Neither in Holland nor in France 
could buyers be found for the cabinet. Perhaps the wealthy amateurs, 
who think of nothing but empty éclat, did not find in it the glittering 
species which give us a child’s pleasure. The great inventor’s collec- 
tion offered things more serious: the logical order and arrangement 
of his discoveries; that eloquent and living method which had guided 
his genius to new achievements. Alas! it perished, scattered abroad. 
Having been for a long time ill, in 1680, either through weakness, or 
a disgust for life and men, he shut himself up, and would not go out any 
more. He bequeathed his manuscripts to his faithful and life-long 
friend, whom, when dying, he himself styled the “incomparable,’—the 
Frenchman Thévenot. He died aged forty-three. 
What really killed him? His own science. The too abrupt revela- 
