exhausted in the torrid air, who ever saw a summer morning
more beautiful than that when the clouds muster their legions
to the sound of the thunder, and pour upon us the blessing of
the rain? We repine at toil, and yet how gladly do we turn
in from the lapse of recreation to the harness of effort! We
sigh for the freedom and glory of the country; but, in due
time, just as fresh and beautiful seem to us the brick walls
and the busy streets where our lot is cast, and our interests
run. There is no condition in life of which we can say
exclusively "It is good for us to be here." Our course is
appointed through vicissitude,--our discipline is in
alternations; and we can build no abiding tabernacles along
the way.

But, I observe, in the second place, that there are those who
may discard the notion of retaining any particular condition
of life and yet they would preserve unbroken some of its
relations. They may not keep the freshness of youth, or
prevent the intrusion of trouble, or shut out the claims of
responsibility, or the demands for effort; --they may not
achieve anything of this kind; and they do not wish to
achieve it; but they would build a tabernacle to LOVE, and
keep the objects of dear affection safe within its enclosure.
"Joy, sorrow, poverty, riches, youth, decay, let these come
as they must," say they, "in the flow of Providence; but let
the heart's sanctuaries remain unbroken, and let us in all
this chance find the presence and the ministration of those
we love." And, common as the sight is, we must always
contemplate with a fresh sadness this sundering of family
bonds; this cancelling(sic) of the dear realities of home; this