The essays of Elia . he is knows it indeed, and, if need were, he could preacha homily on the fragility of life; but he brings it nothome to himself, any more than in a hot June we canappropriate to our imagination the freezing days ofDecember. But now, shall I confess a truth ?—I feelthese audits but too powerfully. I begin to count theprobabilities of my duration, and to grudge at theexpenditure of moments and shortest periods, likemisers farthings. In proportion as the years bothlessen and shorten, I set more count upon their periodsand would fain lay my ineffectual finger upon th
The essays of Elia . he is knows it indeed, and, if need were, he could preacha homily on the fragility of life; but he brings it nothome to himself, any more than in a hot June we canappropriate to our imagination the freezing days ofDecember. But now, shall I confess a truth ?—I feelthese audits but too powerfully. I begin to count theprobabilities of my duration, and to grudge at theexpenditure of moments and shortest periods, likemisers farthings. In proportion as the years bothlessen and shorten, I set more count upon their periodsand would fain lay my ineffectual finger upon the spokeof the great wheel. I am not content to pass away like a weavers shuttle. Those metaphors solaceme not, nor sweeten the unpalatable draught of mor-tality. I care not to be carried with the tide, thatsmoothly bears human life to eternity; and reluctat the inevitable course of destiny. I am in love withthis green earth; the face of town and country; theunspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of 48. MOONLIQHT ITSELF, WITH ITS SHADOWY AND SPECTRAL APPEARANCES. NEW YEARS EVE streets. I would set up my tabernacle here. I amcontent to stand still at the age to which I am arrived ;I, and my friends: to be no younger, no richer, nohandsomer. I do not want to be weaned by age ; ordrop, Uke mellow fruit, as they say, into the grave.—Any alteration, on this earth of mine, in diet or inlodging, puzzles and discomposes me. My household-gods plant a terrible fixed foot, and are not rooted upwithout blood. They do not willingly seek Lavinianshores. A new state of being staggers me. Sun, and sky, and breeze, and soUtary walks, andsummer holidays, and the greenness of fields, and thedelicious juices of meats and fishes, and society, and thecheerful glass, and candle-light, and fireside con-versations, and innocent vanities, and jests, and ironyitself—do these things go out with life ? Can a ghost laugh, or shake his gaunt sides, whenyou are pleasant with him ? And you, m
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