Is not this part of the grand principle of the universe?—­the eternal cycle of reproduction and decay, pervading all and every thing—­blindly contributed to by the folly and wickedness of man!  “So far shalt thou go, but no further,” was the fiat; and, arrived at the prescribed limit, we must commence again.  At this moment intellect has seized upon the seven-league boots of the fable, which fitted everybody who drew them on, and strides over the universe.  How soon, as on the decay of the Roman empire, may all the piles of learning which human endeavours would rear as a tower of Babel to scale the heavens, disappear, leaving but fragments to future generations, as proofs of pre-existent knowledge!  Whether we refer to nature or to art, to knowledge or to power, to accumulation or destruction, bounds have been prescribed which man can never pass, guarded as they are by the same unerring and unseen Power, which threw the planets from his hand, to roll in their appointed orbits.  All appears confused below, but all is clear in heaven.

I have somewhere heard it said, that wherever heaven may be, those who reach it will behold the mechanism of the universe in its perfection.  Those stars, now studding the firmament in such apparent confusion, will there appear in all their regularity, as worlds revolving in their several orbits, round suns which gladden them with light and heat, all in harmony, all in beauty, rejoicing as they roll their destined course in obedience to the Almighty fiat; one vast, stupendous, and, to the limits of our present senses, incomprehensible mechanism, perfect in all its parts, most wonderful in the whole.  Nor do I doubt it:  it is but reasonable to suppose it.  He that hath made this world and all upon it can have no limits to His power.

I wonder whether I shall ever see it.

I said just now, let us think.  I had better have said, let us not think; for thought is painful, even dangerous when carried to excess.  Happy is he who thinks but little, whose ideas are so confined as not to cause the intellectual fever, wearing out the mind and body, and often threatening both with dissolution.  There is a happy medium of intellect, sufficient to convince us that all is good—­sufficient to enable us to comprehend that which is revealed, without a vain endeavour to pry into the hidden; to understand the one, and lend our faith unto the other; but when the mind would soar unto the heaven not opened to it, or dive into sealed and dark futurity, how does it return from its several expeditions?  Confused, alarmed, unhappy; willing to rest, yet restless; willing to believe, yet doubting; willing to end its futile travels, yet setting forth anew.  Yet, how is a superior understanding envied! how coveted by all!—­a gift which always leads to danger, and often to perdition.

Thank Heaven!  I have not been entrusted with one of those thorough-bred, snorting, champing, foaming sort of intellects, which run away with Common Sense, who is jerked from his saddle at the beginning of its wild career.  Mine is a good, steady, useful hack, who trots along the high-road of life, keeping on his own side, and only stumbling a little now and then, when I happen to be careless,—­ambitious only to arrive safely at the end of his journey, not to pass by others.