r　next　year。　Happiness　is　not　a　matter　of　events；　it　depends　upon　the　tides　of　the　mind。　Disease　is　metrical；　closing　in　at　shorter　and　shorter　periods　towards　death；　sweeping　abroad　at　longer　and　longer　intervals　towards　recovery。　Sorrow　for　one　cause　was　intolerable　yesterday；　and　will　be　intolerable　tomorrow；　today　it　is　easy　to　bear；　but　the　cause　has　not　passed。　Even　the　burden　of　a　spiritual　distress　unsolved　is　bound　to　leave　the　heart　to　a　temporary　peace；　and　remorse　itself　does　not　remain—it　returns。　Gaiety　takes　us　by　a　dear　surprise。　If　we　had　made　a　course　of　notes　of　its　visits；　we　might　have　been　on　the　watch；　and　would　have　had　an　expectation　instead　of　a　discovery。　No　one　makes　such　observations；　in　all　the　diaries　of　students　of　the　interior　world；　there　have　never　e　to　light　the　records　of　the　Kepler　of　such　cycles。　But　Thomas　à　Kempis　knew　of　the　recurrences；　if　he　did　not　measure　them。　In　his　cell　alone　with　the　elements—“What　wouldst　thou　more　than　these　for　out　of　these　were　all　things　made”—he　learnt　the　stay　to　be　found　in　the　depth　of　the　hour　of　bitterness；　and　the　remembrance　that　restrains　the　soul　at　the　ing　of　the　moment　of　delight；　giving　it　a　more　conscious　wele；　but　presaging　for　it　an　inexorable　flight。　And　“rarely；　rarely　est　thou；”　sighed　Shelley；　not　to　Delight　merely；　but　to　the　Spirit　of　Delight。　Delight　can　be　pelled　beforehand；　called；　and　constrained　to　our　service—Ariel　can　be　bound　to　a　daily　task；　but　such　artificial　violence　throws　life　out　of　metre；　and　it　is　not　the　spirit　that　is　thus　pelled。　THAT　flits　upon　an　orbit　elliptically　or　parabolically　or　hyperbolically　curved；　keeping　no　man　knows　what　trysts　with　Time。

It　seems　fit　that　Shelley　and　the　author　of　the　IMITATION　should　both　have　been　keen　and　simple　enou