interests that do not concern you, and of which you have no idea.
And so here we are, you standing at the manger, old boy, and I
sitting upon it; the mortal and the immortal, close together; your
nose on my knee, my paper on your head; yet with something between
us broader than the broad Atlantic."

Here we find one man pitying his poor, dumb, unconscious
companion, and the little dog that trots in to attend the morning
prayers, because their life is so brief, and, more particularly,
because it is so insignificant. He recognizes the feeble likeness
between himself and them, and appreciates also the tremendous
difference. He does not think that he would be glad to exchange
his lot of labor and care for their carelessness and content, but,
reaching forward to grasp the hand of an immortal destiny, he
sorrows that he must leave his dumb servants and companions behind
him.

And this is the normal view of the question. We rise out of
semi-conscious infancy into a life of the senses, which goes on to
perfection in our childhood. We come into a state in which the
mechanism of the body enjoys its freest play, in which the senses
imbibe their sweetest satisfactions, and in which life either
swells into irrepressible overflowings, or subsides into careless
content. Looking at her children at this period of their life,
many a mother has said, "Let them play while they can; let them be
merry while they may; for they are seeing their happiest days."
But this animal life is not all. In its perfection it is very
beautiful, and it is good because God made it; but it is only the
coarse basis upon which rises a shaft, whiter than marble--wrought
with divine devices--crowned by the light of Heaven. It is only