The love of life, then, is an habitual attachment, not an abstract principle. Simply to be does not " content man's natural desire :" we long to be in a certain time, place, and circumstance. We would much rather be now," on this bank and shoal of time," than have our choice of any future period, than take a slice of fifty or sixty years out of the Millennium, for instance. This shews that our attachment is not confined either to being or to well-being; but that we have an inveterate prejudice in favour of our immediate existence, such as it is. The mountaineer will not leave his rock, nor the savage his hut; neither are we willing to give up our present mode of life, with all its advantages and disadvantages, for any other that could be substituted for it. No man would, I think, exchange his existence with any other man, however fortunate. We had as lief not There are some be, as not be ourselves. persons of that reach of soul that they would. like to live two hundred and fifty years hence, to see to what height of empire America will have grown up in that period, or whether the English Constitution will last so long. These are points beyond me. But I confess I should like to live to see the downfall of Legitimacy. That is a vital question with me; and I shall like it the better, the sooner it happens! No young man ever thinks he shall die. He may believe that others will, or assent to the doctrine that "all men are mortal" as an abstract proposition, but he is far enough from bringing it home to himself individually.' Youth, buoyant activity, and animal spirits hold absolute antipathy with old age as well as with death; nor have we, in the heyday of life, any more than in the thoughtlessness of childhood, the remotest conception how "This sensible warm motion can become nor how sanguine, florid health and vigour shall "turn to withered, weak, and grey." Or if in a moment of idle speculation we indulge "All men think all men mortal but themselves." YOUNG. in this notion of the close of life as a theory, it is amazing at what a distance it seems; what a long, leisurely perspective there is between; what a contrast its slow and solemn approach affords to our present gay fleeting existence! We eye the farthest verge of the horizon, and think what a way we shall have to look back upon, ere we arrive at our journey's end; and without our in the least suspecting it, the mists are at our feet, and the shadows of age encompass us. The two divi sions of our lives have melted into each other the extreme points close and meet with none of that romantic interval stretching out between them, that we had reckoned upon; and for the rich, melancholy, solemn hues of age," the sear, the yellow leaf," the deepening shadows of an autumnal evening, we only feel a dank, cold mist encircling all objects, after the spirit of youth is fled. There is no inducement to look forward; and what is worse, little interest in looking back to what has become so trite and common. The pleasures of our existence have worn themselves out, are 66 gone into the wastes of time," or have turned their indifferent side to us the pains by their repeated blows have worn us out, and have left us neither spirit nor inclination to encounter them again in retrospect. We do not want to rip up old grievances, nor to renew our youth like the phoenix, nor to live our lives twice over. Once is enough. As the tree falls, so let it lie. We shut up the book and close the account once for all! It has been thought by some that life is like the exploring of a passage that grows narrower and darker the farther we advance, without a possibility of ever turning back, and where we are stifled for want of breath at last. For myself, I do not complain of the greater thickness of the atmosphere as I approach the narrow house. I felt it more formerly,' when the idea alone seemed to suppress a thousand rising hopes, and weighed upon the pulses of the blood. At pre sent I rather feel a thinness and want of I remember, once in particular, having this feeling in reading Schiller's Don Carlos, where there is a description of death, in a degree that almost choaked me. 66 support, I stretch out my hand to some object and find none, I am too much in a world of abstraction; the naked map of life is spread out before me, and in the emptiness and desolation I see Death coming to meet me. In my youth I could not behold him for the crowd of objects and feelings, and Hope stood between us, saying " Never mind that old fellow!" If I had lived indeed, I should not so much care to die. But I do not like a contract of pleasure broken off unfulfilled, a marriage with joy unconsummated, a promise of happiness rescinded. My public and private hopes have been left a ruin, or remain only to mock me. I would wish them to be reedified. I should like to see some prospect of good to mankind, such as my life began with. I should like to leave some sterling work behind me. I should like to have some friendly hand to consign me to the grave. On these conditions I am ready, if not willing, to depart. I could then write on my tombGRATEFUL AND CONTENTED! But I have thought and suffered too much to be willing to have thought and suffered in vain!-In looking |