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untravelled waves and shook our love-locks asunder;—ah! we shall tell how it was not wisdom nor the love of wisdom that made us happy, but we were in harmony with nature—fresh from her hand,—we smelled of the warm brown mould from which we sprung,—but from which harmony the thirst after an infinite experience lured us too hastily away.—Boys we would be men; men we would be angels; yet the sure policy of every grade lies in patient conformity to its laws.

It will be good for some to cultivate these earthly desires which call the mind away from reverie and speculation, to the comprehension of the divine benevolence and the glory of nature. How beautiful is all the world! for what reason, if not that we may love it? How it draws us, lest our thoughts fly too far from it!—Our strongest affection is for those whom we must leave upon it; our strongest passion is that which leaves our image after us, when we sink into its bosom. Question its peculiarities, and its wonders: why has the ox a split hoof, and the horse a solid one? What is that necessity which numbered the digits up to nine, and made all nature pay that nine respect? What is the reason of all that calls us to examine? There is but one conclusion: it is to arrest and to divert us, to coax and to banter us sulky sons of God.

There are religionists to whom those ornamental arts which dignify the present life for its own sake are impertinent and unworthy. Yet when the soul has reached any degree of self-possession, beauty becomes a desideratum of its peace. All God's labor

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