irst cause."

Where is the reconciling link between these seeming contradictions?

Now eminence in any of the received sciences, or branches of
literature, has rich capabilities of affording happiness. To penetrate
the depths of mathematics, chemistry, or astronomy--to revel in the
stores of ancient lore;--all such pursuits generally become more
delightfully attractive, the further one advances; or, after the
ancient indefinite use of terms, _knowledge_ might be taken for the
just proportionate training of all the faculties, in distinction from
the teaching, which impresses so many items of truth. And such
education preeminently fits one to pass time happily.

The maxim in question then applies emphatically to the forethought,
which anticipates the dawn of ideas.* [Or, more generally, we might
define, an accurate perception of the difference between _what is_ and
_what ought to be_--between reality and ideal perfection. Perhaps we
might say, _insight into logical futurity_.] And although, as above
said, none do greatly anticipate beyond the general sense of the age,
yet some may too much for their own comfort.

This thought Schiller finely sets forth in his Cassandra. At the hour
of her sister's nuptials, while the rest give loose to merriment at the
festival, the prophetess wanders forth alone, complaining, that her
insight into futurity debars her from participation in the common joy.

"To all its arms doth mirth unfold,
And every heart foregoes its cares,
And hope is busy in the old;
The bridal robe my sister wears,
And I alone, alone am weeping;
The sweet delusion mocks not me;
Around these walls destruction sweeping,
More near and near I see.

A torch before my vision glows,
But not in Hymen's hand it shines;
A flame that to the welkin goes,
But not from holy offering shrines:
Glad hands the banquet are preparing,
And near and near the halls of state,
I hear the god that comes unsparing,
I hear the steps of fate.

And men my prophet wail deride!
The solemn sorrow dies in scorn;
And lonely in the waste I hide
The tortured heart that would forewarn.
And the happy, unregarded,
Mocked by their fearful joy, I trod:
Oh! dark to me the lot awarded,
Thou evil Pythian god!

Thine oracle in vain to be,
Oh! where