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Rh such rough paths do we travel on to old age; and has life there garnered up its treasures to the last? Ah, no! The dust, to which we are so soon to return, lies thick upon the heart; the affections are grown cold; and all vivid emotions have ceased. But the calm is that of monotony, not of content, and is ruffled by the thousand small pettishnesses of temper,—temper which grows stronger as all other faculties weaken and decay. And yet, throughout this busy and excited pilgrimage, whose present would seem so engrossing, man is ever looking beyond it; he never loses the internal consciousness of something undeveloped in his nature—something spiritual and aspiring, which belongs not to earth. That which is good within us seems to claim a requital not of this world; that which is bad trembles before some vague and awful anticipation of judgment. Were it but for the sake of justice, we must believe in a future state—futurity, that only though hidden key to the incomprehensible now! How plainly is vanity of vanities written upon that glorious science, ay, glorious even in its weakness, which once read the history of the earth in the skies, which asked from the stars the mysteries of their shining chronicles, and bade them reveal the future, from the mighty annals of nations and peoples down to the tender VOL. II.