See how yon beam of seeming white
Is braided out of seven-hued light,
Yet in those lucid globes no ray
By any chance shall break astray. 
Hark how the rolling surge of sound,
Arches and spirals circling round,
Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear
With music it is heaven to hear.

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.