A Friendship Formed In Childhood, In Youth,--by

An Author Who Sets His Reader On Sounding The Depths Of His Own Thoughts Serves Him Best.

If The Ancients Left Us Ideas, To Our Credit Be It Spoken That We Moderns Are Building Houses For Them -- Structures Which Neither Plato Nor Archimedes Had Dreamed Possible.

The Fable Runs That The Gods Mix Our Pains And Pleasure In One Cup, And Thus Mingle For Us The Adulterate Immortality Which We Alone Are Permitted Here To Enjoy. Voluptuous Raptures, Could We Prolong These At Pleasure, Would Dissipate And Dissolve Us. A Sip Is The Most That Mortals Are Permitted From Any Goblet Of Delight.

Hold Fast, Therefore, O Circular Philosopher, To Thy Centre, And Drive The Globe Along Its Orbit By The Momentum Of Thy Thought.

Who Loves A Garden, Still His Eden Keeps, Perennial Pleasures Plants, And Wholesome Harvests Reaps.