s to our present gay
dreams of 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 divisions 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 '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. 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,(2) when the idea alone seemed to suppress a thousand rising
hopes, and weighed upon the pulses of the blood. At present I rather
feel a thinness and want of 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 always between us,
saying, 'Never mind that old fellow!' If I had lived indeed, I should
not 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rescinded.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