Then mark the cloven sphere that holds

All thought in its mysterious folds,
That feels sensation's faintest thrill

And flashes forth the sovereign will;
Think on the stormy world that dwells

Locked in its dim and clustering cells!
The lightning gleams of power it sheds

Along its hollow glassy threads!
O Father! grant thy love divine

To make these mystic temples thine!
When wasting age and wearying strife

Have sapped the leaning walls of life,
When darkness gathers over all,

And the last tottering pillars fall,
Take the poor dust thy mercy warms

And mould it into heavenly forms!
CHAPTER VIII.

[SPRING has come. You will find some verses to that effect at the
end of these notes. If you are an impatient reader, skip to them

at once. In reading aloud, omit, if you please, the sixth and
seventh verses. These are parenthetical and digressive, and,

unless your audience is of superior intelligence, will confuse
them. Many people can ride on horseback who find it hard to get on

and to get off without assistance. One has to dismount from an
idea, and get into the saddle again, at every parenthesis.]

- The old gentleman who sits opposite, finding that spring had
fairly come, mounted a white hat one day, and walked into the

street. It seems to have been a premature or otherwise
exceptionable exhibition, not unlike that commemorated by the late

Mr. Bayly. When the old gentleman came home, he looked very red in
the face, and complained that he had been "made sport of." By

sympathizing questions, I learned from him that a boy had called
him "old daddy," and asked him when he had his hat whitewashed.

This incident led me to make some observations at table the next
morning, which I here repeat for the benefit of the readers of this

record.
- The hat is the vulnerable point of the artificial integument. I

learned this in early boyhood. I was once equipped in a hat of
Leghorn straw, having a brim of much wider dimensions than were

usual at that time, and sent to school in that portion of my native
town which lies nearest to this metropolis. On my way I was met by

a "Port-chuck," as we used to call the young gentlemen of that
locality, and the following dialogue ensued.

THE PORT-CHUCK. Hullo, You-sir, joo know th' wuz gon-to be a race
to-morrah?

MYSELF. No. Who's gon-to run, 'n' wher's't gon-to be?
THE PORT-CHUCK. Squire Mico 'n' Doctor Wiliams, round the brim o'

your hat.
These two much-respected gentlemen being the oldest inhabitants at

that time, and the alleged race-course being out of the question,
the Port-chuck also winking and thrusting his tongue into his

cheek, I perceived that I had been trifled with, and the effect has
been to make me sensitive and observant respecting this article of

dress ever since. Here is an axiom or two relating to it.
A hat which has been POPPED, or exploded by being sat down upon, is

never itself again afterwards.
It is a favorite illusion of sanguine natures to believe the

contrary.
Shabby gentility has nothing so characteristic as its hat. There

is always an unnaturalcalmness about its nap, and an unwholesome
gloss, suggestive of a wet brush.

The last effort of decayed fortune is expended in smoothing its
dilapidated castor. The hat is the ULTIMUM MORIENS of

"respectability."
- The old gentleman took all these remarks and maxims very

pleasantly, saying, however, that he had forgotten most of his
French except the word for potatoes, - PUMMIES DE TARE. - ULTIMUM

MORIENS, I told him, is old Italian, and signifies LAST THING TO
DIE. With this explanation he was well contented, and looked quite

calm when I saw him afterwards in the entry with a black hat on his
head and the white one in his hand.

- I think myself fortunate in having the Poet and the Professor for
my intimates. We are so much together, that we no doubt think and

talk a good deal alike; yet our points of view are in many respects
individual and peculiar. You know me well enough by this time. I

have not talked with you so long for nothing and therefore I don't
think it necessary to draw my own portrait. But let me say a word

or two about my friends.
The Professor considers himself, and I consider him, a very useful

and worthy kind of drudge. I think he has a pride in his small
technicalities. I know that he has a great idea of fidelity; and

though I suspect he laughs a little inwardly at times at the grand
airs "Science" puts on, as she stands marking time, but not getting

on, while the trumpets are blowing and the big drums beating, - yet
I am sure he has a liking for his specially, and a respect for its

cultivators.
But I'll tell you what the Professor said to the Poet the other

day. - My boy, said he, I can work a great deal cheaper than you,
because I keep all my goods in the lower story. You have to hoist

yours into the upper chambers of the brain, and let them down again
to your customers. I take mine in at the level of the ground, and

send them off from my doorstep almost without lifting. I tell you,
the higher a man has to carry the raw material of thought before he

works it up, the more it costs him in blood, nerve, and muscle.
Coleridge knew all this very well when he advised every literary

man to have a profession.
- Sometimes I like to talk with one of them, and sometimes with the

other. After a while I get tired of both. When a fit of
intellectual" target="_blank" title="n.知识分子">intellectualdisgust comes over me, I will tell you what I have

found admirable as a diversion, in addition to boating and other
amusements which I have spoken of, - that is, working at my

carpenter's-bench. Some mechanicalemployment is the greatest
possible relief, after the purelyintellectual" target="_blank" title="n.知识分子">intellectual faculties begin to

tire. When I was quarantined once at Marseilles, I got to work
immediately at carving a wooden wonder of loose rings on a stick,

and got so interested in it, that when we were set loose, I
"regained my freedom with a sigh," because my toy was unfinished.

There are long seasons when I talk only with the Professor, and
others when I give myself wholly up to the Poet. Now that my

winter's work is over and spring is with us, I feel naturally drawn
to the Poet's company. I don't know anybody more alive to life

than he is. The passion of poetry seizes on him every spring, he
says, - yet oftentimes he complains, that, when he feels most, he

can sing least.
Then a fit of despondency comes over him. - I feel ashamed,

sometimes, - said he, the other day, - to think how far my worst
songs fall below my best. It sometimes seems to me, as I know it

does to others who have told me so, that they ought to be ALL BEST,
- if not in actualexecution, at least in plan and motive. I am

grateful - he continued - for all such criticisms. A man is always
pleased to have his most serious efforts praised, and the highest

aspect of his nature get the most sunshine.
Yet I am sure, that, in the nature of things, many minds must

change their key now and then, on penalty of getting out of tune or
losing their voices. You know, I suppose, - he said, - what is

meant by complementary colors? You know the effect, too, which the
prolonged impression of any one color has on the retina. If you

close your eyes after looking steadily at a RED object, you see a
GREEN image.

It is so with many minds, - I will not say with all. After looking
at one aspect of external nature, or of any form of beauty or

truth, when they turn away, the COMPLEMENTARY aspect of the same
object stamps itself irresistibly and automatically upon the mind.

Shall they give expression to this secondarymental state, or not?
When I contemplate - said my friend, the Poet - the infinite