“Ah,” said my Aunt Tabithy, as she smoothed the stocking-leg again, with a sigh, “there is, after all, but one youth-time; and if you put down its memories once, you can find no second growth.”

My Aunt Tabithy was wrong.  There is as much growth in the thoughts and feelings that run behind us as in those that run before us.  You may make a rich, full picture of your childhood to-day; but let the hour go by, and the darkness stoop to your pillow with its million shapes of the past, and my word for it, you shall have some flash of childhood lighten upon you, that was unknown to your busiest thought of the morning.

Let a week go by, and in some interval of care, as you recall the smile of a mother, or some pale sister who is dead, a new crowd of memories will rush upon your soul, and leave their traces in such tears as will make you kinder and better for days and weeks.  Or you shall assist at some neighbor funeral, where the little dead one (like one you have seen before) shall hold in its tiny grasp (as you have taught little dead hands to do) fresh flowers, laughing flowers, lying lightly on the white robe of the dear child,—­all pale, cold, silent—­

I had touched my Aunt Tabithy:  she had dropped a stitch in her knitting.  I believe she was weeping.

—­Aye, this brain of ours is a master-worker, whose appliances we do not one half know; and this heart of ours is a rare storehouse, furnishing the brain with new material every hour of our lives; and their limits we shall not know, until they shall end—­together.

Nor is there, as many faint-hearts imagine, but one phase of earnestness in our life of feeling.  One train of deep emotion cannot fill up the heart:  it radiates like a star, God-ward and earth-ward.  It spends and reflects all ways.  Its force is to be reckoned not so much by token as by capacity.  Facts are the poorest and most slumberous evidences of passion or of affection.  True feeling is ranging everywhere; whereas your actual attachments are too apt to be tied to sense.

A single affection may indeed be true, earnest, and absorbing; but such an one, after all, is but a type—­and if the object be worthy, a glorious type—­of the great book of feeling:  it is only the vapor from the caldron of the heart, and bears no deeper relation to its exhaustless sources than the letter, which my pen makes, bears to the thought that inspires it,—­or than a single morning strain of your orioles and thrushes bears to that wide bird-chorus which is making every sunrise a worship, and every grove a temple!

My Aunt Tabithy nodded.

Nor is this a mere bachelor fling against constancy.  I can believe, Heaven knows, in an unalterable and unflinching affection, which neither desires nor admits the prospect of any other.  But when one is tasking his brain to talk for his heart,—­when he is not writing positive history, but only making mention, as it were, of the heart’s capacities,—­who shall say that he has reached the fulness, that he has exhausted the stock of its feeling, or that he has touched its highest notes?  It is true, there is but one heart in a man to be stirred; but every stir creates a new combination of feeling, that like the turn of a kaleidoscope will show some fresh color or form.