ual possession. But, it so happened, that the moment an
end was gained, the moment the bright ideal became a fixed and present
fact, its power to delight the mind was gone.

Mr. Alexander had some taste for the arts. Many fine pictures already
hung upon his walls. Knowing this, a certain picture-broker threw
himself in his way, and, by adroit management and skilful flattery,
succeeded in turning the pent-up and struggling current of the old
gentleman's feelings and thoughts in this direction. The broker soon
found that he had opened a new and profitable mine. Mr. Alexander had
only to see a fine picture, to desire its possession; and to desire was
to have. It was not long before his house was a gallery of pictures.

Was he any happier? Did these pictures afford him a pure and perennial
source of enjoyment? No; for, in reality, Mr. Alexander's taste for the
arts was not a passion of his mind. He did not love the beautiful in
the abstract. The delight he experienced when he looked upon a fine
painting, was mainly the desire of possession; and satiety soon
followed possession.

One morning, Mr. Alexander repaired alone to his library, where, on the
day before, had been placed a new painting, recently imported by his
friend the picture-dealer. It was exquisite as a work of art, and the
biddings for it had been high. But he succeeded in securing it for the
sum of two thousand dollars. Before he was certain of getting this
picture, Mr. Alexander would linger before it, and study out its
beauties with a delighted appreciation. Nothing in his collection was
deemed comparable therewith. Strangely enough, after it was hung upon
the walls of his library, he did not stand before it for as long a
space as five minutes; and then his thoughts were not upon its
beauties. During the evening that followed, the mind of Mr. Alexander
was less in repose than usual. After having completed his purchase of
the picture, he had overheard two persons, who were considered
autocrats in taste, speaking of its defects, which were minutely
indicated. They likewise gave it as their opinion that the painting was
not worth a thousand dollars. This was throwing cold water on his
enthusiasm. It seemed as if a veil had suddenly been drawn from before
his eyes. Now, with a clearer vision, he could see faults where,
before, every defect was thrown into shadow by an all-obscuring beauty.

On the next morning, as we have said, Mr. Alexander entered his
libr