Love, only, unlocks the door upon that futurity where the isles of the blessed lie like stars. Affection is the stepping-stone to God. The heart is our only measure of infinitude. The mind tires with greatness; the heart—never. Thought is worried and weakened in its flight through the immensity of space; but love soars around the throne of the Highest, with added blessing and strength. I know not how it may be with others, but with me the heart is a readier and quicker builder of those fabrics which strew the great country of the Future than the mind. They may not indeed rise so high as the dizzy pinnacles that ambition loves to rear; but they lie like fragrant islands in a sea whose ripple is a continuous melody. And as I muse now, looking toward the EVENING, which is already begun—tossed as I am with the toils of the past, and bewildered with the vexations of the present, my affections are the architect that build up the future refuge. And, in fancy at least, I will build it boldly—saddened, it may be, by the chance shadows of evening; but through all I will hope for a sunset, when the day ends, glorious with crimson and gold. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] CARRY I SAID that harsh and hot as was the present, there were joyous gleams of light playing over the future. How else could it be, when that fair being whom I met first upon the wastes of ocean, and whose name, even, is hallowed by the dying words of Isabel, is living in the same world with me? Amid all the perplexities that haunt me, as I wander from the present to the future, the thought of her image, of her smile, of her last kind adieu, throws a dash of sunlight upon my path. And yet why? Is it not very idle? Years have passed since I have seen her; I do not even know where she may be. What is she to me? My heart whispers—very much! but I do not listen to that in my prouder moods. She is a woman, a beautiful woman indeed, whom I have known once—pleasantly known: she is living, but she will die, or she will marry; I shall hear of it by and by, and sigh, perhaps—nothing more. Life is earnest around me; there is no time to delve in the past for bright things to shed radiance on the future. I will forget the sweet girl who was with me upon the ocean, and think she is dead. This manly soul is strong, if we would but think so; it can make a puppet of griefs, and take down and set up at will the symbols of its hope. —But no, I can not; the more I think thus, the less I really think thus. A single smile of that frail girl, when I recall it, mocks all my proud purposes, as if, without her, my purposes were nothing.