mind with several pages of consecutive figures. He is a
wise youth, to be sure, who can balance one part of genuine
life against two parts of drudgery between four walls, and
for the sake of the one, manfully accept the other.

*

No one knows the stars who has not slept, as the French
happily put it, A LA BELLE ETOILE. He may know all their
names and distances and magnitudes, and yet be ignorant of
what alone concerns mankind,--their serene and gladsome
influence on the mind. The greater part of poetry is about
the stars; and very justly, for they are themselves the
most classical of poets.

*

He surprised himself by a sudden impulse to write poetry--
he did so sometimes, loose, galloping octosyllabics in the
vein of Scott--and when he had taken his place on a
boulder, near some fairy falls, and shaded by a whip of a
tree that was already radiant with new leaves, it still
more surprised him that he should find nothing to write.
His heart perhaps beat in time to some vast indwelling
rhythm of the universe.

*

No man can find out the world, says Solomon, from beginning
to end, because the world is in his heart; and so it is