upon new ventures, or comes uneasily down to snuff the air of
traffic, and feel the jar of wheels. I suppose there is
nobody whose condition is so deplorable, so ghastly, as his
whose lot many may be disposed to envy,--a man at the top of
this world's ease, crammed to repletion with what is called
"enjoyment;" ministered to by every luxury, --the entire
surface of his life so smooth with completeness that there is
not a jut to hang, a hope on, --so obsequiously gratified in
every specific want that he feels miserable from the very
lack of wanting. As in such a case there, can be no
religious life--which never permits us to rest in a feeling
of completeness; which seldom abides with fulness(sic) of
possession, and never stops with self, but always inspires to
some great work of love and sacrifice --as in such a case
there can be no religious life, he fully realizes the poet's
description of the splendor and the wretchedness of him who


" * * built his soul a costly pleasure-house
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell;"

and who said

" * * O soul, make merry and carouse
Dear soul, for all is well.

* * * * * * *

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
Joying to feel herself alive,