In the spring of life, the gilding of the sunshine, the
verdure of the fields, and the variegated paintings of the sky, are so
exquisite in the eyes of infants, at their first looking abroad into a
new world, as nothing, perhaps, afterwards can equal: the heat and
vigour of the succeeding summer of youth, ripens for us new pleasures,
the blooming maid, the nightly revel, and the jovial chase: the serene
autumn of complete manhood feasts us with the golden harvests of our
worldly pursuits: nor is the hoary winter of old age destitute of its
peculiar comforts and enjoyments, of which the recollection and relation
of those past, are, perhaps, none of the least: and, at last, death
opens to us a new prospect, from whence we shall, probably, look back
upon the diversions and occupations of this world, with the same
contempt we do now on our tops and hobby horses, and with the same
surprise, that they could ever so much entertain or engage us."
I would not willingly detract from the beauty of this paragraph; and, in
gratitude to him who has so well inculcated such important truths, I
will venture to admonish him, since the chief comfort of the old is the
recollection of the past, so to employ his time and his thoughts, that,
when the imbecility of age shall come upon him, he may be able to
recreate its languors, by the remembrance of hours spent, not in
presumptuous decisions, but modest inquiries; not in dogmatical
limitations of omnipotence, but in humble acquiescence, and fervent
adoration.
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