o had the
remains of striking beauty. I remember how much she interested me. Her
hair was false, her teeth were false, her complexion was shrivelled, her
form had lost the round symmetry of earlier years, and was angular and
stiff; yet how cheerful and lively she was! She had gone far down-hill
physically; but either she did not feel her decadence, or she had grown
quite reconciled to it. Her daughter, a blooming matron, was there,
happy, wealthy, good; yet not apparently a whit more reconciled to life
than the aged grandam. It was pleasing, and yet it was sad, to see how
well we can make up our mind to what is inevitable. And such a sight
brings up to one a glimpse of Future Years. The cloud seems to part
before one, and through the rift you discern your earthly track far
away, and a jaded pilgrim plodding along it with weary step; and
though the pilgrim does not look like you, yet you know the pilgrim is
yourself.

This cannot always go on. To what is it all tending? I am not thinking
now of an outlook so grave, that this is not the place to discuss it.
But I am thinking how everything is going on. In this world there is no
standing still. And everything that belongs entirely to this world, its
interests and occupations, is going on towards a conclusion. It will
all come to an end. It cannot go on forever. I cannot always be writing
sermons as I do now, and going on in this regular course of life. I
cannot always be writing essays. The day will come when I shall have no
more to say, or when the readers of the Magazine will no longer have
patience to listen to me in that kind fashion in which they have
listened so long. I foresee it plainly, this evening,--even while
writing my first essay for the "Atlantic Monthly,"--the time when
the reader shall open the familiar cover, and glance at the table of
contents, and exclaim indignantly, "Here is that tiresome person again:
why will he not cease to weary us?" I write in sober sadness, my friend:
I do not intend any jest. If you do not know that what I have written is
certainly true, you have not lived very long. You have not learned the
sorrowful lesson, that all worldly occupations and interests are wearing
to their close. You cannot keep up the old thing, however much you may
wish to do so. You know how vain anniversaries for the most part are.
You meet with certain old friends, to try to revive the old days; but
the spirit of the old time will not come over you. It is n