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the ripples break the reflections in the lake!—Why, here is more pleasure than the whole gallery of yesterday afforded!—Do you see why this is?—It is because the whole gallery was as one picture, or one curiosity, and you did not stay to comprehend it: your progress roused the infinite passion, and turned what was a line of beauties into a line of novelties. When you have compassed the exhibition,—assured yourself of the truth that there is nothing there to content you, or astonish you, then you may haunt the gallery for days and days, and feast upon the beauties which the love and hope of the great Perfect drove entirely out of sight on your first perusal.—And who are these minor beauties meant for, if not for you? True, the universe is an infinite gallery; it also is true that we shall traverse it in infinite time; but of what use were it to squander its beauty, gaining no joy thereby, but only increasing our curiosity, which we know cannot be satisfied? And these minor truths were once the height of your comprehension. Besides, we shall see anon a utility and beauty, (which just here we are not altogether ready to appreciate,) in the existence of infinitely various grades of intelligences, which shall peruse at the same time various grades of truth and beauty,—in which variety of intelligences there must be somewhere such beings as man and boy. The universe is full: and would you destroy all that amused your youth, because you are a man?

The sum of this discussion is, that pain is necessary to all finite pleasure. The soul cannot be placed where it will not expand, and pine for alternation. It