is there this difference? It is because imagination joins
to the sight of spring-time that of following seasons. To the tender
buds the eye adds the flowers, the fruit, the shade, sometimes also the
mysteries that may lie hid in them. Into a single point of time our
fancy gathers all the year's seasons yet to be, and sees things less as
they really will be than as it would choose to have them. In autumn,
on the contrary, there is nothing but bare reality. If we think of
spring then, the thought of winter checks us, and beneath snow and
hoar-frost the chilled imagination dies.

The charm we feel in looking upon a lovely childhood rather than upon
the perfection of mature age, arises from the same source. If the
sight of a man in his prime gives us like pleasure, it is when the
memory of what he has done leads us to review his past life and bring
up his younger days. If we think of him as he is, or as he will be in
old age, the idea of declining nature destroys all our pleasure. There
can be none in seeing a man rapidly drawing near the grave; the image
of death is a blight upon everything.

But when I imagine a child of ten or twelve, sound, vigorous, well
developed for his age, it gives me pleasure, whether on account of the
present or of the future. I see him impetuous, sprightly, animated,
free from anxiety or corroding care, living wholly in his own present,
and enjoying a life full to overflowing. I foresee what he will be in
later years, using the senses, the intellect, the bodily vigor, every
day unfolding within him. When I think of him as a child, he delights
me; when I think of him as a man, he delights me still more. His
glowing pulses seem to warm my own; I feel his life within myself, and
his sprightliness renews my youth. His form, his bearing, his
countenance, manifest self-confidence and happiness. Health glows in
his face; his firm step is a sign of bodily vigor. His complexion,
still delicate, but not insipid, has in it no effeminate softness, for
air and sun have already given him the honorable stamp of his sex. His
still rounded muscles are beginning to show signs of growing
expressiveness. His eyes, not yet lighted with the fire of feeling,
have all their natural serenity. Years of sorrow have never made them
dim, nor have his cheeks been furrowed by unceasing tears. His quick
but decided movements show the sprightliness of his age, and his sturdy
independence; they bear testimon