I am about to speak of the disturbing cause of manhood—the hidden influences to harm to which he is exposed—something that comes in manhood to defeat the hopes and expectation of childhood and youth, something that paralyzes the arm lifted in the harvest field, for which seed-time had been appropriately used, and vernal showers and summer suns had done their work of good. I must not, however, be supposed to intimate that all attention is not due to infancy and childhood, to insure the man of worth, or that all of goodness and most of greatness in age are not the consequence of early devotion. We know it is—but we are not hence released from the necessity of inquiry, what it is that defeats the labors given to age—what is it that strikes down the man in his upward march—what is it that suddenly, to the appearance of the world, but perhaps slowly to the sufferer, withdraws the vital stamina of his mind, and leaves him powerless, hopeless, _ambitionless_! The tree that sheds its deciduous leaves in autumn, may have in itself no powers to renew its foliage in the spring, and if sentient would feel that the sap which was receding from its branches would never again flow, to promote its growth and restore its beauty—but the world would know nothing of the blight until spring had brought out other trees, and exposed its nakedness and death, then it might concern the arborator to inquire what had affected that “which promised ere long to be the pride of the wood and prince among the neighboring trees.” Is man less worthy of consideration than insensible wood? But man does not regard his kind; he acknowledges a law for all of nature beside, but for himself and his, he submits all to chance, and fate becomes the providence of submission. If with the season a single class of birds omit their advent—or come in less considerable numbers than was their wont—forthwith the philosopher peers into nature, compares her laws, and with infinite research comes to guess at the motive which influenced the motion of the feathered tribe. “But man dieth and wasteth away.” The immortality upon which he is seizing fades in his grasp, or his hand becomes palsied—few or none reach the point at which they aim, and there is no one to ask the reason of the failure, or to explain the causes which have disappointed the aspirant of his fame and the world of its advantage. “Of how much more value are ye than many sparrows!” I have often in moments of reflection upon the fame and conduct of particular, distinguished men, felt a great anxiety to know something of their private life, that I might be able to judge of the cause of the disappointment which their life’s close had worked for their friends and admirers. I have put the question to some one who might have more knowledge than I of the individual to whom I referred. “Oh, he drinks too much.” “That is true—anybody can see that. But how does it happen that such a person should drink too much?”