wanderers out of eternity for the brief adventure of time. And, in spite of
all the fascinations of that adventure, the balance of our feeling is
against repeating it. For we know that every thing that makes life dear to
us would have vanished with all the old familiar faces and happy
associations of our former pilgrimage, and there is something disloyal in
the mere thought of coming again to form new attachments and traverse new
ways. Holmes once wrote a poem about being "Homesick in heaven"; but it
would be still harder to be homesick on earth--to be wandering about among
the ghosts of old memories, and trying to recapture the familiar atmosphere
of things. We should make new friends; but they would not be the same. They
might be better; but we should not ask for better friends: we should yearn
for the old ones.

There is a fine passage in Guido Rey's noble book on the "Matterhorn" which
comes to my mind as a fitting expression of what I think we feel. He was on
his way to climb the mountain, when, on one of its lower slopes, he saw
standing lonely in the evening light the figure of a grey-headed man. It
was Whymper, the conqueror of the Matterhorn--Whymper grown old, standing
there in the evening light and gazing on the mighty rock that he had
vanquished in his prime. His climbing days were done, and he sought no more
victories on the mountains. He had had his day and was content to stand
afar off, alone with his memories, leaving the joy of battle to the young
and the ardent. There was not one of those memories that he would be
without--save, of course, that terrible experience in the hour of his
victory over the Matterhorn. But had you asked him if he was still avid for
those topless grandeurs and starry majesties he would have said, "It is
enough."