The evanescent sorrows of infancy have faded from the recollection, the flowery scenes of childhood are passed, the thraldom of pupilage is over, the fetters of minority are dissevered, and Youth steps boldly on the threshold of life, proud of the superiority, and conscious of the attributes of MAN.
"The world is all before him where to choose."
Society courts him to the enjoyment of rational and of sensual pleasure. The anticipation of evil finds no place in his imagination. All of friendship is faithful, and love pure as attractive. A short career in the busy round of existence, while it proves the fallacy of some of his crude conceptions, only affords a confirmation of others. If trusted friendship discover its instability, or cherished love its inconstancy, still Fancy promises, in other fountains, the unadulterated source of happiness. He looks not to the mind to supply the vacuum they have left. Youth is not the season for reflection. Fame has not yet animated the daring spirit of enterprise, and the social circle and the midnight revel display all their attractions. Lost in the whirl of inebriating delights, Reason maintains but a divided empire. But let her "still small voice" be heard in the intervals of passion, and will it not whisper to his heart, Is it peace?
The bowl has ceased to exhilarate; this species of excitement is happily relinquished, and, in the active scenes of business, he finds a stimulant to exertion and enjoyment. The acquisition of wealth will enable him to astonish the world with his magnificence; or, if a more worthy motive prevail, will furnish the means to relieve indigence, extricate virtuous misfortune from the fetters that chain it to the earth, and wipe the tear of want from the eye of the widow and the orphan. Glorious reward for days of toilsome industry. How soon may he find some more sordid spirit grasping the object that eludes his pursuit, and the anguish of disappointment displace the glowing visions of his fancy. While the strife of hopes and fears drive repose from his pillow, when the howling of the wind reminds him of the instability of that element on which he has adventured many a rich argosie, it would be mockery for him to ask of Care, Is it peace?
Fortune, however, while she laughed to scorn his dreams of princely splendour, has deigned to crown his days of anxiety with competence, and Philosophy bids him be content. He chooses a partner of his joys and sorrows, and sees a hopeful progeny around him. Once more Fancy spreads the glowing landscape of the future to his eye. Through those dear ones, whose infantine pleasures now amuse his paternal mind, he will attain the object of his hopes. His daughters shall wed with the first families that now tower above him; his sons—
"Visions of glory spare his aking sight;"—
he eagerly anticipates the moment of their matured existence, when he shall exultingly exclaim, in the fulness of his heart, after the detail of their unrivalled achievements, I AM THEIR FATHER. A few years roll away; the fiat of Omniscience is gone forth, and all, but one, of those that but now cheered his domestic board, are gathered into the garner of eternity. That one, the first—the last—remains his only comfort. On that loved one, he, and the beloved partner of his afflictions, bowed down with sorrow rather than with years, now place their only hopes. He will support their tottering footsteps; he sooth the sorrows and smooth the pillow of their waning age. Alas! the haunts of dissipation receive him; premature infirmities, racking pains, palsied limbs, hasten him, with rapid and unerring steps, to the grave—and all beyond it. It were in vain to ask of his agonized bosom,—agonized by the conviction of his fatal paternal indulgence,—Is it peace!
Is not the quiver of affliction exhausted? One shaft is left. That dear mourner, that has partaken so largely of the cup of his sorrows, cannot sustain the recollection
"That such things were, and were most dear to her."
Silent and uncomplaining, she bows before the storm. Her ashes rest with those of her children. Where is now that eager spirit, grasping at phantoms, and soaring into the regions of uncreated imagination. Hope is extinguished in his bosom; his soul is black with the very midnight of despair. Frail man! Didst thou ever ask, Of whom did I receive these precious gifts? Bow before the throne of Omnipotence; bless that Power who gave and who took away; pray to him for resignation; and, when the spirit of vital religion pours its holy influence into thy heart, thou needest not ask of thyself or the world, Is it peace?