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I HAD an idea that a Man might pass a very pleasant life in this manner. Let him on a certain day read a certain page of full Poesy or distilled Prose, and let him wander with it, and muse upon it and reflect from it, and dream upon it: until it becomes stale But when will it do so? Never When a man has arrived at a certain ripeness in intellect any one grand and spiritual passage serves him as a starting-post towards all the "two-and-thirty Palaces." How happy is such a voyage of conception, what delicious, diligent indolence!