volume. Yet there is enough on every leaf to make the good man
shudder for his own wild and idle wishes, as well as for the sinner,
whose whole life is the incarnation of a wicked desire.

But again the door is opened, and we hear the tumultuous stir of the
world,--a deep and awful sound, expressing in another form some
portion of what is written in the volume that lies before the Man of
Intelligence. A grandfatherly personage tottered hastily into the
office, with such an earnestness in his infirm alacrity that his
white hair floated backward as he hurried up to the desk, while his
dim eyes caught a momentary lustre from his vehemence of purpose.
This venerable figure explained that he was in search of To-morrow.

"I have spent all my life in pursuit of it," added the sage old
gentleman, "being assured that To-morrow has some vast benefit or
other in store for me. But I am now getting a little in years, and
must make haste; for, unless I overtake To-morrow soon, I begin to
be afraid it will finally escape me."

"This fugitive To-morrow, my venerable friend," said the Man of
Inelligence, "is a stray child of Time, and is flying from his
father into the region of the infinite. Continue your pursuit, and
you will doubtless come up with him; but as to the earthly gifts
which you expect, he has scattered them all among a throng of
Yesterdays."

Obliged to content himself with this enigmatical response, the
grandsire hastened forth with a quick clatter of his staff upon the
floor; and, as he disappeared, a little boy scampered through the
door in chase of a butterfly which had got astray amid the barren