Hope on—hope ever. There is nothing in this world so valuable as hope. The thing hoped for, precious though it be, is perhaps less of a blessing in itself than the state of mind which convinces us that by the proper effort we are able to obtain it. Better is it to be full of hope than to have triumphed in the pursuit of all that man regards as most desirable. Hope is richer than a diadem. Hopefulness is a perpetual banquet—a feast that never cloys; and he who has around him the glowing atmosphere which hope alone can bring, has no need to envy the successes that others have achieved. His dreams surpass reality. But Tribulation Trepid has no hope. If there were a germ of it at the outset of his career, it was, as it were, trampled down and buried by a conviction steadfastly impressed, that, if others could succeed he was sure to fail; and therefore, he did fail. Did he mount a horse—oh! Tribulation Trepid will be thrown from the saddle, as a matter of course—and he was thrown. Did he undertake to leap the brook—the discouraging idea seemed to arrest him midway that he could not do it; and Trepid emerged dripping from the wave. And so it was, and so it has been, throughout the life of Tribulation—such, it may be, is the secret why the lives of so many of our kind present an unbroken series of disastrous failure. They lack the inspiring voice of hope. They knew it would be so; and so it is. * * * * * It is a melancholy thing, moreover, to have to do with the family of the Trepids. In the endeavor to encourage them, your own hopefulness seems to fade away; and the more you labor to elevate them and to push them forward, the more heavily, and inertly, and listlessly do they fall back upon your hands. They are convinced that it is of “no use doing nothing,” and they tamely suffer every competitor to pass them in the race. Just so it is with the lugubrious individual now before us, who invariably puts the worst possible face upon every matter, for the simple reason that, as in the reflection of a mirror, every matter wears the worst possible face to him; and as he looks at matters sadly, despondingly, just so do matters return the glance. He sighs over matters, and groans over matters. He walks through the streets with a longitude of visage and a mournful down-drawing of the corners of the mouth that would be neat and appropriate at the funeral of his best friend, but which are sadly out of time and place at every other moment; and he feels assured always that it is going to rain—if not to-day, certainly to-morrow—that is, in case a shower is not wanted. Otherwise, it will never rain again—it has forgotten how.