Our childhood grows in value as we grow in years.  It is to that time that every one refers the influence which reaches to his present and somehow moulds it.  It may have been an insignificant circumstance,—­a word,—­a book,—­praise or reproof; but from it has flowed all that he is.  We should seem ridiculous in men’s eyes, were we known to give that importance to certain trifles which in our private and inmost thought they really have.  Each finds somewhat in his childhood peculiar and remarkable, on which he loves to dwell.  It gives him a secret importance in his own eyes, and he bears it about with him as a kind of inspiring genius.  Intimations of his destiny, gathered from early memories, float dimly before him, and are ever beckoning him on.  That which he really is no one knows save himself.  His words and actions do but inadequately reveal the being he is.  We are all greater than we seem to each other.  The heart’s deepest secrets will not be told.  The secret of the interest and delight we take in romances and poetry is that they realize the expectations and hopes of youth.  It is the world we had painted and expected.  He is unhappy who has never known the eagerness of childish anticipation.

Full of anticipations, full of simple, sweet delights, are these years, the most valuable of lifetime.  Then wisdom and religion are intuitive.  But the child hastens to leave its beautiful time and state, and watches its own growth with impatient eye.  Soon he will seek to return.  The expectation of the future has been disappointed.  Manhood is not that free, powerful, and commanding state the imagination had delineated.  And the world, too, disappoints his hope.  He finds there things which none of his teachers ever hinted to him.  He beholds a universal system of compromise and conformity, and in a fatal day he learns to compromise and conform.  At eighteen the youth requires much stricter truth of men than at twenty-four.

At twenty-four the prophecies of childhood and boyhood begin to be fulfilled, the longings of the heart to be satisfied.  He finds and tastes that life which once seemed to him so full of satisfaction and advantage.  The inclination to speak in the first person passes away, and his composition is less autobiographical.  The claims of society and friends begin to be respected.  Solitude and musing are less sweet.  The morbid effusions of earlier years, once so precious, no longer please.  Now he regards most his unwritten thought.  He uses fewer adjectives and alliterations, more verbs and dogmatism.  There was a time when his genius was not domesticated, and he did his work somewhat awkwardly, yet with a fervor prophetic of settled wisdom and eloquence.  The youth is almost too much in earnest.  He aims at nothing less than all knowledge, all wisdom, all power.  Perchance the end of all this is that he may discover his own proper work and tendency, and learn to know himself from the revelations of his own nature in universal nature.