The affections arising from youthful associations are more enduring than those which come of the same cause in riper years.  They are more disinterested and sincere.  They come with the spring of life, root deep into the heart, and cling with irradicable tenacity through life.  We find in mature life dear friends, friends who will share the all they have with you, who will for you hazard even life, and you love them—­but not as you love the boys who were at school with you, who ran with you wild through the woods, when you hunted the squirrel and trapped the quail.  When fortuitous time forces your separation, and long intervening years blot the features, in their change, from your recognition, and chance throws you again with a loved companion of life’s young morn—­the thrill which stirs the heart, when his name is announced, comes not for the friend found only when time has grown gray.

Go and stand by the grave of one loved when a boy, the little laughing girl you played with at hide-and-seek, through the garden shrubbery and the intricacies of the house and yard, one who was always gentle and kind, she for whom you carried the satchel and books when going to school, who came at noon and divided her blackberry-pie with you, and always gave you the best piece—­and see how all these memories will come back; and if the green grass upon the roof-top of her home for eternity does not bear, when you have gone away, a tear-drop to sparkle and exhale, a tribute to endearing memory, your heart is not worth the name.  It is not given to us to love all with whom we may be familiar in early life.  But every one will sincerely love some few of the companions of his school-days and early manhood.  This is really the sugar of life, and the garrulity of age loves to recount these, for in his narrative he lives over and revives the attachments of boyhood.  Woman may confess only to her own heart these memories—­she must love only in secret.  When the heart is fresh and brimming with affection, she may love with all the devotion of woman’s heart; but if her love meets no return its birthplace must be its grave.  She may only tell, when she is old, of her successful and more fortunate love.  Ah! how many recount to their grandchildren their love, in budding youth, for their grandfather, who hide in the secret alcoves of the heart a more sacred memory of one who found his way there before dear old grandfather came.  What sorrows these memories have sown along the way of life! but they have winced not when the thorn has pricked; and how she has folded to her bosom dear John, while imagination made him the more dear Willie, her first and foremost love!  These endure in secret, and are the more sacred for this; they die only with the dead heart.  Oh! the grave, the secrets of the grave, are they hidden there for ages, or shall they survive as treasures for eternity?