y, some
assurance that this life is not _all_; that hereafter permitted to
awake from the sleep of death, man shall yet fill a part worthy of
his mighty spirit, shall yet find in infinite perfection an object on
which to expend those treasures of thought and feeling which corrode
hidden here in his heart, or are wasted on idols as vain as yonder
vapor which rises from the sea."

Absorbed in mediation, he had not perceived until now that another was
approaching, walking at a slow pace along the margin of the sea. As
the stranger came nearer, the young philosopher could not avoid
observing him with interest. He was apparently very aged. Long locks
of white hair streamed on his shoulders and mingled with the hair of a
beard equally as white. His robe was arranged with careful soberness,
and in his hand he carried a staff, though his erect and firm figure
did not seem to need its support. In his clear, bright eye, his ruddy
cheek and benign expression, appeared intelligence, health and
goodness, all the beauty of a green old age, all the charm of the
fully ripened autumn of life. As they drew nearer each other, the
stranger looked earnestly on the young philosopher, who regarded him
with increasing interest.

"Dost thou know me, my son," said the old man, at length, "that thou
lookest on me so earnestly?"

The young man bowed reverently as he answered.

"No, father; but I wondered to see one like thee here at such an
hour."

"I am here," replied the stranger, "to meet one who promised to be
with me at this place. But what, my son, brings thee to this lonely
spot, when yonder busy city is thronged with whatsoever can minister
to pleasure or the thirst of knowledge?"

"It is therefore I am here; for it is when alone with the great Author
of Nature, among his works, that we can best seek that highest wisdom
which is learned only by meditating on His nature and the end of our
being. The fountains of divine philosophy may be found even here in
the cold sea-sand."

"Alas! my son, and if they be, of what avail shalt thou find them? The
sand upon which the showers descend vainly for centuries, is not more
barren nor more unstable than that philosophy of which thou makest thy
boast."

"I boast not--I am but a seeker after Truth."

"Ay, so say all you philosophers; but what profit shalt thou have of
that truth which cannot be practiced in life, nor console thee at
death?"

"My father, it was but now that I lamented to