Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon, now tops that horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward the heaven of the Infinite.  The mind feels its birth, and struggles toward the great birth-master.  The heart glows; its humanities even yield and crimple under the fierce heat of mental pride.  Vows leap upward, and pile rampart upon rampart to scale all the degrees of human power.

Are there not times in every man’s life when there flashes on him a feeling—­nay, more, an absolute conviction—­that this soul is but a spark belonging to some upper fire; and that, by as much as we draw near by effort, by resolve, by intensity of endeavor, to that upper fire, by so much we draw nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels?  Is there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize hold of what floats above us in the universe of thought, and drag down what shreds we can to scatter to the world?  Is it not belonging to greatness to catch lightning from the plains where lightning lives, and curb it for the handling of men?

Resolve is what makes a man manliest;—­not puny resolve, not crude determination, not errant purpose, but that strong and indefatigable will which treads down difficulties and danger as a boy treads down the heaving frost-lands of winter,—­which kindles his eye and brain with a proud pulse-beat toward the unattainable.  Will makes men giants.  It made Napoleon an emperor of kings, Bacon a fathomer of nature, Byron a tutor of passion, and the martyrs masters of Death!

In this age of manhood you look back upon the dreams of the years that are past:  they glide to the vision in pompous procession; they seem bloated with infancy.  They are without sinew or bone.  They do not bear the hard touches of the man’s hand.

It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life ended with that broken hope; but the few years that lie between have given long steps upward.  The little grief that threw its shadow, and the broken vision that deluded you, have made the passing years long in such feeling as ripens manhood.  Nothing lays the brown of autumn upon the green of summer so quick as storms.

There have been changes too in the home scenes; these graft age upon a man.  Nelly—­your sweet Nelly of childhood, your affectionate sister of youth—­has grown out of the old brotherly companionship into the new dignity of a household.

The fire flames and flashes upon the accustomed hearth.  The father’s chair is there in the wonted corner; he himself—­we must call him the old man now, though his head shows few white honors—­wears a calmness and a trust that light the failing eye.  Nelly is not away; Nelly is a wife; and the husband yonder, as you may have dreamed,—­your old friend Frank.

Her eye is joyous; her kindness to you is unabated; her care for you is quicker and wiser.  But yet the old unity of the household seems broken; nor can all her winning attentions bring back the feeling which lived in Spring under the garret-roof.