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is worth more in the middle of our life than at the end, because of its encouragement. But our pains, at the same time, draw little interest of their kind: on the contrary, they are a source of pride; they leave no sting behind, but rather knowledge and caution, which diminish pain in perspective; and they are stimuli and warning, without which our bodies would not endure a year.—Above all, the life is full of novelty for the ever-wakeful curiosity of the soul. "Who knoweth what a day may bring forth?"—Here is economy—the most is made of a certain amount of joy, and the least is made of any given amount of pain. But where no ray of hope from a blessing in the past pointed with cheer to the happiness of the future, we should moan at every trivial advance," and is this all?"—But why all? From what could we prophesy that there was better to be expected? Nay, instead of holding to a belief that we were advancing, we should be certain that each day increased our wretchedness,—our grade would point downward, and we should never smile—never, while the heavens beheld us.

It is in the nature of the immortal finite to hate monotony. We know there exists perfection, and we desire to taste it. Aught that recurs loses its interest, and its hold on our attention. The clock strikes seventy-eight times in twelve hours, and after half of those hours, no one in the house can tell you whether the clock has struck at all! What is half an inch of advance per day to the growing soul? We prefer our joys intense, though our pains be intense also. Men will be drunk a week, though they should be sick a