d schoolmate over
the stern with a string of thought tied to him, and look--I am afraid
with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious compassion--to see the rate
at which the string reels off, while he lies there bobbing up and down,
poor fellow! and we are dashing along with the white foam and bright
sparkle at our bows;--the ruffled bosom of prosperity and progress, with
a sprig of diamonds stuck in it! But this is only the sentimental side
of the matter; for grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love.

Don't misunderstand that metaphor of heaving the log, I beg you. It is
merely a smart way of saying that we cannot avoid measuring our rate of
movement by those with whom we have long been in the habit of comparing
ourselves; and when they once become stationary, we can get our
reckoning from them with painful accuracy. We see just what we were
when they were our peers, and can strike the balance between that and
whatever we may feel ourselves to be now. No doubt we may sometimes be
mistaken. If we change our last simile to that very old and familiar one
of a fleet leaving the harbor and sailing in company for some distant
region, we can get what we want out of it. There is one of our
companions;--her streamers were torn into rags before she had got into
the open sea, then by and by her sails blew out of the ropes one after
another, the waves swept her deck, and as night came on we left her a
seeming wreck, as we flew under our pyramid of canvas. But lo! at
dawn she is still in sight,--it may be in advance of us. Some deep
ocean-current has been moving her on, strong, but silent,--yes, stronger
than these noisy winds that puff our sails until they are swollen as the
cheeks of jubilant cherubim. And when at last the black steam-tug with
the skeleton arms, that comes out of the mist sooner or later and takes
us all in tow, grapples her and goes off panting and groaning with her,
it is to that harbor where all wrecks are refitted, and where, alas! we,
towering in our pride, may never come.

So you will not think I mean to speak lightly of old friendships,
because we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and
former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not
what we are. Nothing strikes one more, in the race of life, than to see
how many give out in the first half of the course. "Commencement day"
always reminds me of the start for the "Derby," when the beautiful
high-bred three-year old