Sad indeed is the fate of those men who live to outlive themselves. You find them in every community, and especially in those classes of society which offer the greatest opportunities for early liberty and enjoyment. They suffer from a kind of premature senility. They have fallen in the struggle, though they are not visibly wounded. To them, life has lost its zest and action its aim. Usually this is the result of the early exhaustion of irrational enjoyments; but it may proceed from some blow of disappointed ambition, from a violent shock to the emotions, from the vertigo of unlooked-for prosperity, or the discouragement of persistent adversity. The stroke has fallen, and no voice can awake them to action again. * * * * * The continuing satisfaction of an intense love of living,――that would be a fairly good definition of happiness, and not far from one which Fichte proposed. * * * * * Few at any age could say with Fontenelle at ninety-three,――“Had I my life to live again, I should change nothing.” * * * * * What nobler compliment could be paid a man than this, which Vittoria Colonna wrote to Michael Angelo,――“You have disposed the labor of your whole life as one single great work of art.” * * * * * No road is the right one to him who knows not whither he is going. * * * * * If you _will_ stand in the rain, why pray the gods to keep you dry? * * * * * Many a defeat, claimed as a victory, passes for one. * * * * * Joys that are present are alone those that are real. * * * * * There is wisdom in the Spanish saying, “The water of your own village is better than the wine of Rome.” * * * * * Think over this, that Walt Whitman wrote:―― Will you seek afar off? You surely come back at last, In things best known to you finding the best, or as good as the best, In folks nearest to you finding the sweetest, strongest, lovingest, Happiness, knowledge, not in another place but in this place, not for another hour but this hour. * * * * * The two misfortunes of life are, that we are born young, and become old. * * * * * True, the mind of a child is a plot of virgin soil; but, like this, it is made up of strata of incalculable antiquity. * * * * * The moral lessons of our youth are like our old love letters,――carefully preserved, but never read. * * * * * Time wears out masks; the old show what they are. * * * * * The mellowest fruits of life should ripen in its autumn; but if the spring had not its seeding, and the summer its flowers, what harvest can we look for? * * * * *