treasury of his broader knowledge, and surrender the strength
that he has gathered in effort and endurance? Who, for its
careless joy, would exchange the heart-warm friendships that
have been annealed in the vicissitudes of years, --the love
that sheds a richer light upon our path, as its vista
lengthens, or has drawn our thoughts into the glory that is
beyond the veil? Nay, even if his being, has been most
frivolous and aimless, or vile, --in the penitent throb with
which this is felt to be so, there is a. spring of active
power which exists not in the dreams of the youth; and the
sense of guilt and of misery is the stirring, of a life
infinitely deeper than that early flow of vitality and -
consciousness which sparkles as it runs. Build a tabernacle
for perpetual youth, and say, "It is good to be here"? It
cannot be so; and it is well that it cannot. Our post is not
the Mount of Vision, but the Field of Labor; and we can find
no rest in Eden until we have passed through, Gethsemane.

Equally vain is the desire for some condition in life which
shall be free from care, and want, and the burden of toil. I
suppose most people do, at times, wish for such a lot, and
secretly or openly repine at the terms upon which they are
compelled to live. The deepest fancy in the heart of the most
busy men is repose - retirement-command of time and means,
untrammeled by any imperative claim. And yet who is there
that, thrown into such a position, would find it for his real
welfare, and would be truly happy? Perhaps the most restless
being in the world is the man who need do nothing, but keep
still. The old soldier fights all his battles over again,
and the retired merchant spreads the sails of his thought