row, and may quicken effort, and may exalt faith; we are thankful for those who have departed this life in his faith and fear, and cherish the trembling hope that we, too, may be found "in the blessed company of all faithful people."

He

Madame de Staël used to say that traveling was one of the saddest pleasures of life. I think there is a great deal of truth in this phrase. Every traveler at times answer's Goldsmith's description: "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow." There was no one in his age who traveled more, or whose travels have been more famous, than St. Paul. Yet in a great degree it must have been a sorrowful matter, apart from his special difficulties as an apostle, and from those "perils," most of which have been eliminated from modern life. was a most affectionate-hearted man, and in various ways he must have been constantly wounded in his affection. He formed no tie which he was not speedily compelled to sever. He would come to a city and make strangers friends, and then soon he would leave his friends and sojourn among strangers. Now something of this kind must happen to one who travels. He must at times linger in spots where his feeling is that it is good to be, and that here he would fain set up his tabernacle. Almost unexpectedly he has alighted on that very corner of the world which in all its belongings and surroundings seems to suit him best. He meets the most charming people he has ever known; he finds himself taking a growing interest in the history and politics of the district, and irresistibly drawn toward the land-owner or the curé; that rounded bay, with the castle on the cliff, and the orchard in the hollow, and the light-house far away at sea, exactly suit his sense of proportion and beauty. He would soon be a botanist in those woods, and a zoologist among those rocks at low water. There are some men who find it impossible to leave, without some touch of sorrow, any place where

on.

they have resided for some little time, and whose moral tentacles adhere most strongly to any surface that may be presented to them. Even the most indifferent men find on some rare occasion that they have found that very spot of earth which, to the best of their own self-knowledge, would suit them best. But a necessity is on them, and they must be moving They are due at some other place. They have formed a definite arrangement, from which there seems no fair way of escape. They can hardly hope that any change will improve their lot for the better; they would willingly compromise for things as they are; they will be glad even if they can henceforth obtain an enduring approximation to that sense of contentment and calm and peace of mind which for these happy days have wrapped them as with a mantle, and guarded them as with a shield. But their destiny is upon them, and they are unable to extricate themselves.

Perhaps such persons require a grave lesson to be taught them. Their disposition is such that they would most willingly linger among the fading bowers of earth, oblivious that those bowers must fade, and so forgetful of those only happy isles, those only amaranthine gardens, where an immortal soul may find an enduring home. Therefore it is that they find no sure rest for the sole of their feet, and some marring element is allowed to be mixed up with what otherwise would be a rounded and happy life. Our tendrils cling so easily and naturally to earth, that we need to be often reminded that we are but strangers and pilgrims here, and, amid all traveling, to realize that great travel of all, in which we seek an abiding city. As a man moves from land to land, and observes "cities of men, nations, and governments," he may, perhaps, better learn to realize that he is but a traveler between two eternities.

And it may even be that whatever is most exalted and

good in travel may be continued to us in a future state of existence. I remember hearing of some good man who had never seen the Alps, but said that he intended to take them on his way up to heaven. Those who, chained down to home by the invisible links of a thousand duties, have never been able to see God's handicraft of the mountains and his wonders of the deep, may yet behold a loftier Chimborazo, a more sublime Andes, and contemplate the unspeakable beauty of the hyaline of heaven. As upon a serene night the stars come out, army upon army, and the very dust of stars, beyond the ken of distant vision, seems, as the sand upon the seashore, innumerable, we begin to comprehend the boundless possibilities of knowledge for those who are thought worthy to attain to the first resurrection. Then one can almost despise the littleness of this poor, slight planet, and almost welcome death, that throws open the gates of infinite space. In the fathomless riches of eternity it will seem but as the occupation of one of the deep unclouded days of heaven to take leave of friends, for some five hundred years, to make the tour of Jupiter's satellites, or examine into the condition of the whilom earth. But I come to a point where speculation is lost in awe and mysteries, and where human analogies may cease to shadow forth, even ever so dimly, the heavenly realities. Here, then, I pause.

CHAPTER IX.

Literature, Science, and Art.

I SUPPOSE we are all believers in the boundless power of steady, persevering work. "Never despair," wrote Edmund Burke to his friend, "the high-souled and generous" Wickham; "but if you do, work in despair." As Matthew Arnold says:

"And tasks in hours of insight willed,

In hours of gloom can be fulfilled."

O si sic omnia! Why should not Matthew Arnold give us noble poetry, instead of attacking worthy dissenters, and assaulting the very foundations even of natural religion? And, as the laureate says:

"But well I know

That unto him that works and feels he works
This same New Year is ever at the door."

And to make one more quotation: "Even in the meanest sorts of labor, the whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real harmony the instant he sets himself to work."

I am not one of those who would recommend to any young man the deliberate choice of literature as a profession. In fact I greatly object to the idea of literature as a profession. Journalism may, and according to modern exigencies must be, a profession, but literature ought to lie open to all ranks and orders of society. There are many patent reasons why we can give very few encouraging words to those who would adopt letters as a distinct path in life. It is, as Bacon said, a good

staff, but a sorry crutch. It is a good thing to help a man, but a bad thing whereon to rest. It is not the most remunerative, and per se it is not the most useful of avocations. Then there is a very common and a very fatal confusion of thought between the desire and the ability to pursue a literary career. Then the competition is enormous. Most editors of magazines will say that they could fill their periodicals years in advance with very fair, printable matter that is sent in to them. Then there is a good deal of social disadvantage about literature, and though bookish people will think well of a littérateur, to be one is hardly a recommendation to society at large.

Still there is another side of the case which has to be stated, and which is more fraught with encouragement. There is an enormous amount of "copy" to be produced every morning, every week, every month, every quarter, every year, and there must be an army of writers to produce it. There is no reason why a man of fair culture and intelligence should not find some sort of service in that army. In the first ranks of literature stand the great geniuses of the world, who are on an intellectual platform infinitely exalted above their fellows. But there is also an immense literary field which may be occupied by the rank and file. A man of culture, observation, intelligence, with a power of clear thought and fluent expression, ought to be able to find something to do. Poeta nascitur, orator fit, is a saying which may be adopted into the statement that while the genius must be born, a man may make himself a fairly good writer. If he has leisure and independence, if he has patience and industry, if he can afford to bide his time, let him persevere, and the chances are that his perseverance will be rewarded by results. And though one would be very sorry to induce any man deliberately to embrace this as a profession, yet to clergymen of insufficient income, to briefless barristers, to all who amid the rise of prices are condemned to fixed in