Yet there is enough， on every leaf， to make the good manshudder for his own wild and idle wishes， as well as forthe sinner， whose whole life is the incarnation of a wickeddesire.
But again the door is opened； and we hear the tumultuousstir of the world—a deep and awful sound， expressingin another form， some portion of what is written inthe volume that lies before the Man of Intelligence. Agrandfathely personage tottered hastily into the office， suchan earnestness in his infirm alacrity that his white hairfloated backward， as he hurried up to the desk； while hisdim eyes caught a momentary lustre from his vehemenceof purpose. This venerable figure explained that he was insearch of To-morrow.
“I have spent all my life in pursuit of it，” added the sageold gentleman， “being assured that To-morrow has somevast benefit or other in store for me. But I am now gettinga little in years， and must make haste； for unless I overtakeTo-morrow soon， I begin to be afraid it will finally escapeme.”
“This fugitive To-morrow， my venerable friend，” said theMan of Intelligence， “is a stray child of Time， and is flyingfrom his father into the region of the infinite. Continueyour pursuit， and you will doubtless come up with him； butas to the earthly gifts which you expect， he has scatteredthem all among a throng of Yesterdays.”
Obliged to content himself with this enigmaticalresponse， the grandsire hastened forth， with a quick clatterof his staff upon the floor； and as he disappeared， a little boyscampered through the door in chase of a butterfly， whichhad got astray amid the barren sunshine of the city. Hadthe old gentleman been shrewder， he might have detectedTo-morrow under the semblance of that gaudy insect. Thegolden butterfly glistened through the shadowy apartment，and brushed its wings against the Book of Wishes， andfluttered forth again with the child still in pursuit. A mannow entered， in neglected attire， with the aspect of athinker， but somewhat too rough-hewn and brawny for ascholar. His face was full of sturdy vigor， with some finerand keener attribute beneath； though harsh at first， it wastempered with the glow of a large， warm heart， which hadforce enough to heat his powerful intellect through andthrough. He advanced to the Intelligencer， and looked athim with a glance of such stern sincerity， that perhaps fewsecrets were beyond its scope.
“I seek for Truth，” said he.
“It is precisely the most rare pursuit that has ever comeunder my cognizance，” replied the Intelligencer， as hemade the new inscription in his volume. “Most men seekto impose some cunning falsehood upon themselves fortruth. But I can lend no help to your researches. Youmust achieve the miracle for yourself. At some fortunatemoment， you may find Truth at your side—or， perhaps，she may be mistily discerned， far in advance—or， possibly，behind you.”
“Not behind me，” said the seeker， “for I have left nothingon my track without a thorough investigation. She flitsbefore me， passing now through a naked solitude， and nowmingling with the throng of a popular assembly， and nowwriting with the pen of a French philosopher， and nowstanding at the altar of an old cathedral， in the guise ofa Catholic priest， performing the high mass. Oh wearysearch！ But I must not falter； and surely my heart-deepquest of Truth shall avail at last.”
He paused， and fixed his eyes upon the Intelligencer，with a depth of investigation that seemed to holdcommerce with the inner nature of this being， whollyregardless of his external development.
“And what are you？” said he. “It will not satisfy me topoint to this fantastic show of an Intelligence Office， andthis mockery of business. Tell me what is beneath it， andwhat your real agency in life， and your influence uponmankind？”
“Yours is a mind，” answered the Man of Intelligence，“before which the forms and fantasies that conceal theinner idea from the multitude， vanish at once， and leavethe naked reality beneath. Know， then， the secret. Myagency in worldly action—my connection with the press，and tumult， and intermingling， and development of humanaffairs—is merely delusive. The desire of man’s heart doesfor him whatever I seem to do. I am no minister of action，but the Recording Spirit！”
What further secrets were then spoken， remains amystery； inasmuch as the roar of the city， the bustle ofhuman business， the outcry of the jostling masses， therush and tumult of man’s life， in its noisy and brief career，arose so high that it drowned the words of these twotalkers. And whether they stood talking in the Moon， or inVanity Fair， or in a city of this actual world， is more than Ican say.
