ose most people
do, at times, wish for such a lot, and secretly or openly repine at the
terms upon which they are compelled to live. The deepest fancy in the
heart of the most busy men is repose--retirement-command of time and
means, untrammeled by any imperative claim. And yet who is there that,
thrown into such a position, would find it for his real welfare, and
would be truly happy? Perhaps the most restless being in the world is
the man who need do nothing, but keep still. The old soldier fights all
his battles over again, and the retired merchant spreads the sails of
his thought upon new ventures, or comes uneasily down to snuff the air
of traffic, and feel the jar of wheels. I suppose there is nobody whose
condition is so deplorable, so ghastly, as his whose lot many may be
disposed to envy,--a man at the top of this world's ease, crammed
to repletion with what is called "enjoyment;" ministered to by every
luxury,--the entire surface of his life so smooth with completeness that
there is not a jut to hang, a hope on,--so obsequiously gratified
in every specific want that he feels miserable from the very lack of
wanting. As in such a case there, can be no religious life--which never
permits us to rest in a feeling of completeness; which seldom abides
with fulness(sic) of possession, and never stops with self, but always
inspires to some great work of love and sacrifice--as in such a case
there can be no religious life, he fully realizes the poet's description
of the splendor and the wretchedness of him who

" * * built his soul a costly pleasure-house
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell;"

and who said

" * * O soul, make merry and carouse
Dear soul, for all is well.

* * * * * * *

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over nature, lord of the visible earth,
Lord of the 'senses five

"Communing with herself:, 'All these are mine,
And let the world have peace or wars,
'T is one to me,' * * * * *

* * * * * So three years
She throve, but on the fourth she fell,
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
Struck through with pangs of hell."

The truth is, there is no one place, however we may envy it, which would
be indisputably good for us to occupy; much less for us to remain in.
The zest of life, like the pleasure which we receive from a work of art,
or from nature, comes from undulations--from i