would have adored Angelina through eternity if Angelina had only
remained the same as when he first adored her.

It is a cheerless hour for you both when the lamp of love has gone out
and the fire of affection is not yet lit, and you have to grope about
in the cold, raw dawn of life to kindle it. God grant it catches
light before the day is too far spent. Many sit shivering by the dead
coals till night come.

But, there, of what use is it to preach? Who that feels the rush of
young love through his veins can think it will ever flow feeble and
slow! To the boy of twenty it seems impossible that he will not love
as wildly at sixty as he does then. He cannot call to mind any
middle-aged or elderly gentleman of his acquaintance who is known to
exhibit symptoms of frantic attachment, but that does not interfere in
his belief in himself. His love will never fall, whoever else's may.
Nobody ever loved as he loves, and so, of course, the rest of the
world's experience can be no guide in his case. Alas! alas! ere
thirty he has joined the ranks of the sneerers. It is not his fault.
Our passions, both the good and bad, cease with our blushes. We do
not hate, nor grieve, nor joy, nor despair in our thirties like we did
in our teens. Disappointment does not suggest suicide, and we quaff
success without intoxication.

We take all things in a minor key as we grow older. There are few
majestic passages in the later acts of life's opera. Ambition takes a
less ambitious aim. Honor becomes more reasonable and conveniently
adapts itself to circumstances. And love--love dies. "Irreverence
for the dreams of youth" soon creeps like a killing frost upon our
hearts. The tender shoots and the expanding flowers are nipped and