That is a picture of life. That’s the hill of life. Pilgrims of life are we all. The base of life’s hill is rough. Rocks and boulders are strewn broadcast. Thorns and thistles grow promiscuously around. Numberless traps and pitfalls beset the way. Many a young man knows all about these rough places in life. His feet have been pricked and pierced by the thorns and thistles. Traps have been set for him. Chasms have yawned before him, and pitfalls have gaped at his feet. The moral atmosphere surrounding him is bad. But no weakling he. There is iron in his blood, phosphorus in his brain, fire in his bones, and courage in his heart. He is a man! He says: “The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt or shake with fear.” He asks the girl of his choice to wear his name, and share his joys and sorrows. They have nothing but a firm faith in God, and a loyal love for each other. He leads her to Hymen’s altar, and there the twain are made one. Now they start up the hill of life, on the long, long pilgrimage. They walk side by side— “Two souls with but a single thought, Two hearts that beat as one.” The way becomes rough. The husband goes in front to ward off the danger, to remove rocks and boulders, thorns and briers. He does all he can to smooth his wife’s pathway. Now and then he comes to some formidable obstacle that he can not surmount. Here the wife, with her kindly counsels, with her sympathy, co-operation and prayers, pushes her husband up on the rock. The poet says: “Unless above himself he can Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!” The woman helps the man to “erect himself above himself.” Then the man, if he be a man, draws the woman up to his level. As they climb life’s hill together, the roughness decreases, the way becomes smoother. Instead of the thorn, comes up the fir-tree; instead of the brier, comes up the myrtle-tree. The moral atmosphere grows purer, and the prospect more pleasing. He constantly plucks flowers from the garden of the heart, and weaves them into bouquets for his companion. And, as Byron beautifully says, “These flowers of love make glad the garden of life.”