Ah, that we more entirely followed His example: how, if our prayers had more leisure secured for them, were more strictly protected from intrusion and disturbance, more lonely--how they would aid us to breathe the air of the mountain, to keep ever before us its wider view, even when we had descended to mix again with life’s thronging necessities in the plain. Even in our room, when the door is closed upon us (for I am speaking here of private prayer, not of public worship),--even thus, we are not necessarily upon the mountain, speaking through the stars to God. The larger crowd may have been satisfied and dismissed, but we have taken with us into our retirement some few that were more intimate and close to our heart, and we have not been careful enough to be _alone_. The preparation of dismissing the multitude, and even the disciples, then the ascent of the mountain, by the winding path of meditation, and then the unrestricted view, the sky nearest, indeed touching us, and earth spread out far below, and the soul left to calm, leisure, unharassed communion with God; all these are necessary; all these we learn from the example of that mild yet awful Being who is God manifest in the flesh. Let us arm ourselves with the same mind. But my thoughts, returning to that morning walk which introduced this essay, remind me that there is one suggestive point in it which deserves a little attention. It is _the time of day_ at which the ascent was made. Early prayer, while the world’s cares are asleep, and the road lies hushed and still, not thronged with jostling passengers, nor stunned with noisy vehicles--this is that, which of all our private devotions, most aids in consecrating life to God. Descending from that early hour of high communion, to take our part in the awakening toil and interest of earth, it is then easier to give their proper proportion to the events and employments of the day. Be it a joy or a sorrow, be it a loss or a gain, it takes its just place in the grand scheme of things, and does not monopolise the heart, nor obscure the vision; far less will the mere straws in the path, or the butterflies that dance by, catch and retain the absorbed regard of the heirs of immortality. The trifling irritations, the mean jealousies, the little rankling grudges, the petty quarrels, also the transitory enjoyments and short-lived profits, of each day’s life, will not greatly, nor for long, move the heart that retains its memory of that far-stretching Morning view. And it will be less difficult to rescue life from its proneness to become ignoble, and to free ourselves from the narrowing, stunting, dwarfing process which it often is, but which it was never intended to be. Yet, but for these mountain-pauses, but for these retirements from the over-familiarity and intrusiveness of trifles, how shall we avoid the danger of habitually, and soon, entirely bounding our view and mode of thought by the hedges which shut in our eyes and