this world, that they dwindled into utter insignificance in his estimation. A dismission from an office of honor and profit, under circumstances which would have excited murmurs and anger in the minds of most other men, was scarcely noticed by him, or noticed in a spirit of cheerful content. "The sweetness and repose" (said he upon this occasion) "I find in the studies in which I have engaged myself and which are my delight, will induce me to remain in this city, if I am allowed to continue in it, at least until the printing of my dictionary is finished; for my presence is absolutely necessary in the place where it is printed. I am no lover of money nor of honors, and would not accept of any invitation should it be made to me; nor am I fond of the disputes and cabals which reign in all academies: _Canam mihi et musis_." Car. Lit. vol. i, p. 22. These were not mere professions; his life, nay, his very death illustrated their truth and sincerity. The very hour of his death was soothed and solaced by this taste, which subdued even the sense of the last mortal agony. This, and instances similar in nature, if not in degree, which abound in the lives of literary men, afford conclusive evidence of the rewards which knowledge brings to the human mind itself. What can elevate the dignity of our nature more in our view than the contemplation of such spectacles as these? What terms expressive enough should we find, to convey our sense of gratitude to the genius who would offer us a gift that would enable us to defy the persecutions of this world and laugh at its misfortunes! a gift, which, for our enjoyments, would render us independent of every other being in existence, save ourselves and him who created us--a gift which would endow us with a taste and the means of gratifying a taste which age cannot dull, and gratification cannot satiate. And yet to a great degree, the mind which is imbued with the _love_ of knowledge enjoys these blessings. When this becomes the absorbing taste of our minds, it not only endures--but man cannot take it from us. Whilst sensual pleasures die, and the tastes which they gratify decay with time, this is the immortal desire of our being which survives when all others fade away. It is the charmed gift which we bear within ourselves, and whose spells can call up a thousand forms of beauty and light even in the depths of the dungeon, and surround the couch of disease with bright visions and pleasant hopes. As those who ate of the fabled lotus were said to forget their country and kindred in their enjoyments, when they had tasted of its flowers, so those who have once fed upon the immortal fruit of the tree of knowledge, cease to regard those temporal cares and pleasures which bind man to this earth, and lead through a maze of uncertainty to disappointment at last. They look into nature--and each link which they discover in the