man was telling me the other day how he could not imagine a greater pleasure than to get up at five or even earlier in the summer time, and to take a drive, or ride, or walk through the cornfields. In his_ youth, he declared, he had often said his prayers then in admiration of his Creator.—Not a word of all this was true, I am positive. He drove or rode through the cornfields, and took pleasure in it, I daresay; yet that pleasure was not of the devotional order, but no doubt very worldly—plans for dances, and the like. Now he is censorious over the times and thinks he then felt what perhaps he would now feel, or at any rate ought to feel, having regard to the present state of his nerves, bones and muscles. Isn’t that odd? As a matter of fact it is contained in Horace’s laudator temporis acti, only with a slight difference.
When we are young we are scarcely conscious of living. The feeling of health is only acquired by sickness. It is when we jump up, or because of the shock in falling, that we become aware of the earth’s attraction. When old age sets in, the state of being unwell becomes a sort of health, and we no longer notice that we are ill. Did not the recollection of the past remain, we should hardly be aware of the change. For this reason I believe that it is only in our eyes that animals grow old. A squirrel that on its death day leads the life of an oyster is not unhappier than the oyster. Man, however, who lives in triplicate—in the past, in the present, and in the future—may be rendered
