hat spoke about the damnable iteration of the seasons?

A storm is not commonplace, but how long could any of us live--how
long would any of us choose to live--were each day and night a
succession of thunder, lightning, and downpour? Good citizenship is
commonplace, whereas a murder mystery excites us thrillingly. Yet none
of us on that account would choose the society of criminals.

It is to the elemental commonplaces that I am now going to direct your
attention. The world is kept alive by its monotonies. The trouble is
that the indispensable things are so inevitable and persistent that
we take them for granted, and yield them neither gratitude nor even
attention.

Take the beauty of daylight as our illustration once more. We had it
yesterday, have it to-day, have had it ever since we were born, and
will have it until we die. Note, too, the eternal stability of the
heavens, which change not at all; and the endless pour of ocean's
currents, warming certain coasts and leaving others chill. It is the
same with the life intellectual and the life spiritual.

"What is the grandest thing in the universe?" asks Hugo. "A storm at
sea," he answers, and continues, "And what is grander than a storm at
sea?" "The unclouded heavens on a starry and moonless night." "And
what is grander than these midnight skies?" "The soul of man!" A
spectacular climax such as Hugo loved; and still, with all its
dramatic effect, the picturesque statement of a vast and mighty truth!

Very well. The home is the place where character is to be formed, and
therefore its influences on "the soul of man" are like those of the
sun on the body of man. Let us get to those commonplaces, therefore,
at which the cynic lifts his lip, but which are worth a good deal
more to you, young man, than all your achievings will be.

As to the moralities, then, yield yourself utterly to the mother. She
has an instinctive perception of righteousness as affecting your
character that no other intelligence under heaven has, and that she
does not have for any one else, not even for herself. She has her own
way, too, of getting this nourishment of the verities into your
character. It is done not so much by preaching to you, or lecturing
you, as it is by her very presence.

She carries about with her an atmosphere of sweetness and light. The
mother gives to her boy a kind of unspoken counsel. It is a very
subtle thing, like electricity in the material world, and equally as
p