ature, none too much to furnish the banquet for this circle.
But where to find fit, though few, representatives for all we value in humanity?
Where obtain those golden keys to the secret treasure-chambers of the soul?
No samples are perfect.
We must look abroad into the wide circle, to seek a little here, and a little there, to make up our company.
And is not the prent book a good beacon-light to tell where we wait the bark?— a reputation, the means of entering the Olympic game, where Pindar may perchance be encountered
So it seems the mind must reveal its secret; must reproduce.
And I have no castle, and no natural circle, in which I might live, like the wise Makaria, observing my kindred the stars, and gradually enriching my archives.
Makaria here must go abroad, or the stars would hide their light, and the archive remain a blank.
For all the tides of life that flow within me, I am dumb and ineffectual, when it comes to casting my thought into a form.
No old one suits