which will continue till they are gray, are (it must in sober sadness be admitted) of the nature of calves.  For it is beyond doubt that they are at a stage which they will outgrow, and on which they may possibly look back with something of shame.  All these things, beautiful as they are, are no more than Veal.  Yet they are fitting and excellent in their time.  No, let us not call them Veal; they are rather like Lamb, which is excellent, though immature.  No doubt, youth is immaturity; and as you outgrow it, you are growing better and wiser:  still youth is a fine thing; and most people would be young again, if they could.  How cheerful and light-hearted is immaturity!  How cheerful and lively are the little children even of silent and gloomy men!  It is sad, and it is unnatural, when they are not so.  I remember yet, when I was at school, with what interest and wonder I used to look at two or three boys, about twelve or thirteen years old, who were always dull, sullen, and unhappy-looking.  In those days, as a general rule, you are never sorrowful without knowing the reason why.  You are never conscious of the dull atmosphere, of the gloomy spirits, of after-time.  The youthful machine, bodily and mental, plays smoothly; the young being is cheery.  Even a kitten is very different from a grave old cat, and a young colt from a horse sobered by the cares and toils of years.  And you picture fine things to yourself in your youthful dreams.  I remember a beautiful dwelling I used often to see, as if from the brow of a great hill.  I see the rich valley below, with magnificent woods and glades, and a broad river reflecting the sunset; and in the midst of the valley, the vast Saracenic pile, with gilded minarets blazing in the golden light.  I have since then seen many splendid habitations, but none in the least equal to that.  I cannot even yet discard the idea that somewhere in this world there stands that noble palace, and that some day I shall find it out.  You remember also the intense delight with which you read the books that charmed you then:  how you carried off the poem or the tale to some solitary place,—­how you sat up far into the night to read it,—­how heartily you believed in all the story, and sympathized with the people it told of.  I wish I could feel now the veneration for the man who has written a book which I used once to feel.  Oh that one could read the old volumes with the old feeling!  Perhaps you have some of them yet, and you remember the peculiar expression of the type in which they were printed:  the pages look at you with the face of an old friend.  If you were then of an observant nature, you will understand how much of the effect of any composition upon the human mind depends upon the printing, upon the placing of the points, even upon the position of the sentences on the page.  A grand, high-flown, and sentimental climax ought always to conclude at the bottom of a page.  It will look ridiculous, if it ends four or five lines down from the top of