The Crown of Thorns | Page 5

ever cherishes long,.
For he knows that the richest experiences, and the best achievements of
life, come after the period of youth; spring out of this very sadness, and
suffering, and rough struggle in the world, which an unthinking
sentimentality deplores. Ah, my friends, in spite of our trials, our
weariness, our sad knowledge of men and things; in spite of the
declining years among which so many of us are standing, and the
tokens of decay that are coming upon us; nay, in spite even of our very
sins; who would go back to the hours of his youthful experience, and
have the shadow stand still at that point upon the dial of his life? Who,
for the sake of its innocence and its freshness, would empty the treasury
of his broader knowledge, and surrender the strength that he has
gathered in effort and endurance? Who, for its careless joy, would
exchange the heart-warm friendships that have been annealed in the
vicissitudes of years, --the love that sheds a richer light upon our path,
as its vista lengthens, or has drawn our thoughts into the glory that is
beyond the veil? Nay, even if his being, has been most frivolous and
aimless, or vile, --in the penitent throb with which this is felt to be so,
there is a. spring of active power which exists not in the dreams of the
youth; and the sense of guilt and of misery is the stirring, of a life
infinitely deeper than that early flow of vitality and - consciousness
which sparkles as it runs. Build a tabernacle for perpetual youth, and
say, "It is good to be here"? It cannot be so; and it is well that it cannot.
Our post is not the Mount of Vision, but the Field of Labor; and we can
find no rest in Eden until we have passed through, Gethsemane.
Equally vain is the desire for some condition in life which shall be free
from care, and want, and the burden of toil. I suppose 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 inequalities;
not from any monotony, even though it