se. In manhood, the great deep flows on, more calm, but more
profound; its serenity is the proof of the might and terror of its
course, were the wind to blow and the storm to rise.

A young man's ambition is but vanity,--it has no definite aim, it plays
with a thousand toys. As with one passion, so with the rest. In youth,
Love is ever on the wing, but, like the birds in April, it hath not yet
built its nest. With so long a career of summer and hope before it, the
disappointment of to-day is succeeded by the novelty of to-morrow, and
the sun that advances to the noon but dries up its fervent tears. But
when we have arrived at that epoch of life,--when, if the light fail us,
if the last rose wither, we feel that the loss cannot be retrieved,
and that the frost and the darkness are at hand, Love becomes to us
a treasure that we watch over and hoard with a miser's care. Our
youngest-born affection is our darling and our idol, the fondest pledge
of the Past, the most cherished of our hopes for the Future. A certain
melancholy that mingles with our joy at the possession only enhances its
charm. We feel ourselves so dependent on it for all that is yet to come.
Our other barks--our gay galleys of pleasure, our stately argosies of
pride--have been swallowed up by the remorseless wave. On this last
vessel we freight our all, to its frail tenement we commit ourselves.
The star that guides it is our guide, and in the tempest that menaces we
behold our own doom!

Still Maltravers shrank from the confession that trembled on his lips;
still he adhered to the course he had prescribed to himself. If ever
(as he had implied in his letter to Cleveland)--if ever Evelyn should
discover they were not suited to each other! The possibility of such an
affliction impressed his judgment, the dread of it chilled his heart.
With all his pride, there was a certain humility in Maltravers that was
perhaps one cause of his reserve. He knew what a beautiful possession
is youth,--its sanguine hopes, its elastic spirit, its inexhaustible
resources! What to the eyes of woman were the acquisitions which manhood
had brought him,--the vast but the sad experience, the arid wisdom, the
philosophy based on disappointment? He might be loved but for the vain
glitter of name and reputation,--and love might vanish as custom dimmed
the illusion. Men of strong affections are jealous of their own genius.
They know how separate a thing from the household character geni