resolve, not crude determination, not errant purpose,but that strong, and indefatigable will, which treads down difficulties and danger, as a boy treads down the heaving frost-lands of winter;-which kindles his eye and brain, with a proud pulse-beat toward the unattainable. Will makes men giants. It made Napoleon an Emperor of kings,-Bacon a fathomer of nature, Byron a tutor of passion, and the martyrs, masters of Death.

In this age of manhood, you look back upon the dreams of the years that are past; they glide to the vision in pompous procession; they seem bloated with infancy. They are without sinew or bone. They do not bear the hard touches of the man's hand.

It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life ended with that broken hope; but the few years that lie between have given long steps upward. The little grief that threw its shadow, and the broken vision. that deluded you, have made the passing years long, in such feeling as ripens manhood. Nothing lays the brown of autumn upon the green of summer, so quick as storms.

There have been changes too in the home scenes; these graft age upon a man. Nelly—your sweet Nelly of childhood, your affectionate sister of youth, has grown out of the old brotherly companionship into the new diginty of a household.

The fire flames and flashes upon the accustomed hearth. The father's chair is there in the wonted corner; he himself-we must call him the old man now, though his head shows few white honors-wears a calmness and a trust that light the failing eye. Nelly is not away; Nelly is a wife; and the husband yonder, as you may have dreamed,-your old friend Frank.

Her eye is joyous; her kindness to you is unabated; her care for you is quicker and wiser. But yet the old unity of the household seems broken; nor can all her winning attentions bring back the feeling which lived in Spring, under the garret roof.

The isolation, the unity, the integrity of manhood, make a strong prop for the mind; but a weak one for the heart. Dignity can but poorly fill up that chasm of the soul, which the home affections once occupied. Life's duties, and honors press hard upon the bosom, that once throbbed at a mother's tones, and that bounded in a mother's smiles.

In such home, the strength you boast of, seems a weakness; manhood leans into childish memories, and melts-as Autumn frosts yield to a soft, south wind, coming from a Tropic spring. You feel in a desert where you once felt at home-in a bounded landscape, -that was once-the world.

The tall sycamores have dwindled to paltry trees:

the hills that were so large, and lay at such grand distance to the eye of childhood, are now near by, and have fallen away to mere rolling waves of upland. The garden fence that was so gigantic, is now only a simple paling: its gate that was such a cumbrous affair-reminding you of Gaza-you might easily lift from its hinges. The lofty dovecote, which seemed to rise like a monument of art, before your boyish vision, is now only a flims" box upon a tall spar of hemlock.

The garret even, with its lofty beams, its dark stains, and its obscure corners, where the white hats, and coats hung ghost-like, is but a low loft, darkened by age,— hung over with cobwebs, dimly lighted with foul windows, its romping Charlie,-its glee,-its swing,its joy, its mystery, all gone forever.

The old gallipots, and retorts are not anywhere to he seen in the second story window of the brick school. Dr. Bidlow is no more! The trees that seemed so large, the gymnastic feats that were so extraordinary, the boy that made a snapper of his handkerchiefhave all lost their greatness, and their dread. Even the springy usher, who dressed his hair with the ferule, has become the middle-aged father of five curly-headed boys, and has entered upon what once seemed the gigantic commerce- -of 'stationery and account books.'

The marvellous labyrinth of closets, at the old mansion where you once paid a visit-in a coach-is

all dissipated. They have turned out to be the merest cupboards in the wall. Nat, who had travelled, and seen London, is by no means so surprising a fellow to your manhood, as he was to the boy. He has grown spare, and wears spectacles. He is not so famous as he was. You would hardly think of consulting him now about your marriage; or even about the price of goats upon London bridge.

As for Jenny-your first, fond flame-lively, romantic, black-eyed Jenny,-the reader of Thaddeus of Warsaw, who sighed and wore blue ribbons on her bonnet,-who wrote love notes,-who talked so tenderly of broken hearts,-who used a glass seal with a cupid and a dart, dear Jenny, she is now the plump, and thriving wife of the apothecary of the town! She sweeps out every morning at seven, the little entry of the apothecary's house: she buys a 'joint' twice a week from the butcher, and is particular to have the 'knuckle' thrown in, for soups: she wears a sky blue calico gown, and dresses her hair in three little flat quirls on either side of her head-each one pierced through with a two-pronged hair-pin.

She does tot read Thaddeus of Warsaw, now.

II.

MAN OF THE WORLD.

NEW persons live through the first periods of

F

manhood, without strong temptations to be counted—' men of the world.' The idea looms grandly among those vanities, that hedge a man's approach to maturity.

Clarence is in good training for the acceptance of this idea. The broken hope which clouded his closing youth, shoots over its influence upon the dawn of manhood. Mortified pride had taught as it always teaches-not caution only, but doubt, distrust, indifference. A new pride grows up on the ruins of the old, weak, and vain pride of youth. Then, it was a pride of learning, or of affection; now, it is a pride of indifference. Then, the world proved bleak, and cold, as