_that_ is far away.

* * * * *

Yes, more might have been made of all of us; probably, in the case of
most, not much more _will_ be made in this world. We are now, if we
have reached middle life, very much what we shall be to the end of the
chapter. We shall not, in this world, be much better; let us humbly
trust that we shall not be worse. Yet, if there be an undefinable
sadness in looking at the marred material of which so much more might
have been made, there is a sublime hopefulness in the contemplation of
material, bodily and mental, of which a great deal more and better will
certainly yet be made. Not much more may be made of any of us in life;
but who shall estimate what may be made of us in immortality? Think of a
"spiritual body"! think of a perfectly pure and happy soul! I thought of
this, on a beautiful evening of this summer, walking with a much valued
friend through a certain grand ducal domain. In front of a noble
sepulchre, where is laid up much aristocratic dust, there are
sculptured, by some great artist, three colossal faces, which are meant
to represent Life, Death, and Immortality. It was easy to represent
Death: the face was one of solemn rest, with closed eyes; and the
sculptor's skill was mainly shown in distinguishing Life from
Immortality. And he had done it well. _There_ was Life: a care-worn,
anxious, weary face, that seemed to look at you earnestly, and with
a vague inquiry for something,--the something that is lacking in all
things here. And _there_ was Immortality: life-like, but, oh, how
different from mortal Life! _There_ was the beautiful face, calm,
satisfied, self-possessed, sublime, and with eyes looking far away. I
see it yet, the crimson sunset warming the gray stone,--and a great
hawthorn-tree, covered with blossoms, standing by. Yes, _there_ was
Immortality; and you felt, as you looked at it,--that it was MORE MADE
OF LIFE!

* * * * *

MY FRIEND'S LIBRARY.

That exquisite writer, Horae Subsecivae Brown, quotes, (without
comment,) as a motto to one of his volumes, an anecdote from Pierce
Egan, which I reproduce here:--

"A lady, resident in Devonshire, going into one of her parlors,
discovered a young ass, who had found its way into the room, and
carefully closed the door upon himself. He had evidently not been long
in this situation before he had nibbled a part of Cicero's Orations,
and eaten nearly all the