action common to all ages, the paragon of that deep learning which is not
derived from books, but gleaned by his genius from all nature with a rare
intuition, and with an incomprehensible power of research. In him what
mines of instruction, what sources of undiscovered delight, what
philosophy yet to be grappled with, to be laid to the heart! Charles Lamb
has with a quaint melancholy depicted the pain of parting from his books,
and from the indefinable delights laid up in each dear folio. Yet after
all, what is the literature of one age but the reproduction, the
remoulding, the condensation of the literature of another; the loss and
destruction of its waste ore, but the re-setting of its gems, and the
renewed investiture of all its beauties. There is no glowing thought, no
exquisite conception, no sublime and beautiful idea, which is not
imperishable as the mind itself, and which shall not be carried on from
age to age, or if destroyed or lost upon the written page, revived by some
happy coincidence of intellectual being, and perpetuated and enjoyed, here
or hereafter, wherever mind exists. A communion like this will be a
communion of spirits. A finer organization, expanded faculties shall
rapidly consume the past; but oh, the future! what glories are to be
crowded into its immensity? How shall knowledge be commensurate with the
stars, or wander over the universe? Now bring me the written Revelation,
the written word. It clasps within its volume all excellencies, all
sublimities of speech; secrets which could not be developed by reason, nor
found in the arcana of human wisdom. Henceforth this shall be my only
companion, and its promises shall light my passage over the grave.'

I marked the lustrous beaming of his eye, and from that time he looked at
all things on the 'bright side.' His very love could think upon its object
without a tear, and look forward to a pure and eternal re-union. At last
the hour of dissolution came. I knew it by its unerring symptoms; yet
still I listened to his passionate, poetic converse. It was for the last
time; I was in the chamber of death. What observer can mistake it; the
darkened windows, the stillness, the grouping, the subdued sobs, the awful
watchfulness for the identical moment when a lovely and intellectual
spirit breaks its bonds, as if the strained vision could detect the
spiritual essence. What a heart-sickness comes over those who love! What a
change in the appearance of all th