I have lived to disprove them. I would live past years again, but it should be the latter, not the former portion, for the current of my life, as it approaches the great ocean of eternity, runs smoother and clearer than in its first out-gushing. Like Job's, my latter days have been the most fully blessed. I am now seventy years of age; and bating the loss of a few teeth, and some other inevitable effects of age upon my person, I still possess the mens sana in corpore sano, and "bate no jot of heart or hope." My journey from sixty to seventy has been as delightful as that from forty to sixty; nor do I anticipate any future disappointment should it be extended to eighty, for my confidence in nature's substitutions and benignant provisions is boundless, Had she fixed a century as the impassable boundary of life, we might feel some annoyance and apprehension as we approached it; but by leaving it undetermined, she has, to a certain extent, made us immortal in our own belief, for Hope is illimitable. I often catch myself anxiously inquiring of what disease my seniors have died, as if their disappearance at eighty or ninety were contrary to the usual course of things, and attributable to accident." The shortness of human life," says Dr. Johnson, "has afforded as many arguments to the voluptuary as the moralist." How operative then must it be with me who am anxious to combine both tendencies, and be considered a moral voluptuary, or, in other words, a philosopher, not a follower of Aristippus, or disciple of the Cyrenaic school, devoted to worldly and sensual delights under which the soul "embodies and embrutes ;" but as a pupil of the much misunderstood and calumniated Epicurus, cultivating intellectual enjoyments, and holding pleasure to be the chief good, and virtue the chief pleasure. These are the laudable delights to which I feel a new stimulant from considering the shortness of my remaining career; and whether its termination be near or distant, these enjoyments will, I verily believe, accompany me to the last, and enable me to fall, like Cæsar, in a becoming and decent attitude.

I have just laid down Wordsworth's Excursion, which I have been reading in the fields. How beautiful is the evening! The ground is strewed with dead leaves, which the wind has blown up into little heaps like graves; autumn has spread her vari-coloured mantle over those which still flutter on the trees, some of which, crisp and red, tinkle in the air; while from the chesnuts over my head a large russet leaf, flitting from time to time before my eyes, or falling at my feet, seems to pronounce a silent" memento mori." The sun is rapidly sinking down, leaving the valley before me in shade, while the woods that clothe the hill upon my left, suffused with rosy light, but tranquil and motionless, seem as if they reposed in the flush of sleep. Three horses, unyoked from the plough, are crossing the field towards their stable, and the crows that have been following the furrow, retire cawing to their nests, while a flock of sheep, attended by the shepherd and his dog, are slowly withdrawing to the fold. Every thing seems to breathe of death, to remind me that my sun too is setting, and that I must shortly go to my long home, for the night is approaching. And here, methinks, if my appointed time was come, with the grass for my bed of death, the earth and sky sole witness of my exit, I could contentedly commit my last breath to the air, that it might be wafted to Him who gave it.

Life is at all times precarious there are but a few feet of earth

between the stoutest of us and the grave, and at my age we should not be too sanguine in our calculations; yet, if I were to judge from my own unbroken health and inward feelings, as well as from the opinions of others more competent to pronounce, I have yet ten years at least, perhaps many more, of happiness in store for me. Should the former period be consummated, I pledge myself again to commune with the public. Should it be otherwise, I may, perhaps, be enabled to realize the wish of the celebrated Dr. Hunter, who half an hour before his death exclaimed, " Had I a pen, and were able to write, I would describe how easy and pleasant a thing it is to die." In either alternative, gentle reader, if my example shall have assisted in teaching thee how to live grateful and happy, and to look upon death with resignation, the object of this memoir will be attained, and thou wilt have no cause to regret perusing this sketch of

A SEPTUAGENARY.

MAY.

It Ver et Venus et Veneris prænuntius ante
Pinnatus graditur Zephyrus vestigia propter:
Flora quibus Mater præspergens, ante viaï

Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet.-LUCRET.

How delightful is the opening of May, bringing with it the most delicious sensations, overflowing with sweets, and infusing through all nature a freshness and vitality perceived at no other period of the year. Summer may possess attractions of a more flaunting character, and autumn may proffer its matured fruits and wealthy harvests; but to those who have a keen perception of natural beauty, and a sympathy with the vivid impressions spring produces on the mind, what can be more grateful than the renovated appearance of nature, and the elasticity and exhilaration of feeling experienced at the beginning of this month of fruition, pregnant as it is with light, pleasure, and loveliness? The clouds, no longer black, and hurried across the face of heaven by storms, are like fleeces of snowy whiteness enamelled upon the eternal azure, setting off, and not sullying the purity of its serene hue. The soft breezes,

"Zephyr with Aurora playing,"

bear "buxom health" and joyousness on their wings. The birds sing their sweetest notes.

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,

And float amid the liquid noon.

The early flowers, "the yellow cowslip and the pale primrose," decorate the surface of the earth. The verdure, rich in colour, refreshed with frequent showers, and not yet imbrowned by the summer sun, may be contemplated in all its variety of tinge. Creation seems to have arisen from the dead, all is being-instinct with life and motion. Love also awakes at this genial season, as Cunningham pleasingly sings:

From the west as it wantonly blows,

Fond Zephyr caresses the vine;
The bee steals a kiss from the rose,
And willows and woodbines entwine:
The pinks by the rivulet side,

That border the vernal alcove,
Bend downward to kiss the soft tide:

For MAY is the mother of Love.

MAY tinges the butterfly's wing,
He flutters in bridal array;
And if the wing'd foresters sing

The music is taught them by MAY.
The stock-dove, recluse with her mate,
Conceals her fond bliss in the grove,
And, murmuring, seems to repeat,-

"That MAY is the mother of Love."

Solomon also says, "The winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land." To all conversant with the writings of the poets, striking descriptions of the season must be familiar. Milton makes the most heavenly clime to consist of an "eternal spring"

The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
Knit with the graces and the hours in dance,
Led on the eternal spring.

Virgil, in his second Georgic, places the cosmogony in the spring.—

Such were the days, the season was the same,
When first arose this world's all-beauteous frame;

The sky was cloudless, balmy was the air,

And spring's mild influence made all nature fair.

WARTON, Geo. L. ii. 1. 407. Honest Chaucer, between four and five hundred years ago, speaks of the spring as we speak of it now, for the revolutions of time effect no change in natural sensations. Hear his beautiful lines in the "Romaunt of the Rose."

That it was Mey thus dreamid me,
In time of love and jolite,
That al thing ginneth waxen gay,
For there is neither buske nor hay
In Mey that it n'ill shroudid bene,
And that it with newè levis wrene;
These woddis eke recoveren grene
That drie in winter ben to sene,
And the erth waxith proude withal
For sote dewis that on it fall,
But it would be an interminable task to quote the beautiful apostrophes
which have been addressed to this regal division of the year: we will
only give another extract from a Turkish address to the season.

And the povir estate forgette
In whiche that winter had it sette,
And then becometh the grounde so proude
That it wol have a newè shroude,
And make so queint his robe and fayre,
That it had news an hundred payre
Of grape and flouris Inde and Pers,
And many newis full divers,
That is the robe I mene iwis
Through whiche the ground to praisin is.

"Thou hearest the tale of the nightingale, that the vernal season approaches.' The spring has spread a bower of joy in every grove, where the almond-tree sheds its silver blossoms. Be cheerful; be full of mirth; for the spring passes soon away, it will not last.

"The groves and hills are adorned with all sorts of flowers; a pavilion of roses, as the seat of pleasure, is raised in the garden. Who knows which of us will be alive when the fair season ends? Be cheerful, &c.

"The edge of the bower is filled with the light of Ahmed; among the plants the fortunate tulips represent his companions. Come, O people of Mohammed! this is the season of merriment. Be cheerful, &c."

Such is the description of May by the poets, and such its character really is, in a greater or less degree, to all who enjoy youth and health. The torpitude of age often imbibes warmth from its influence, which, however, is chilled by the reflection that life, unlike nature, has no second spring; it "blossoms but to die." In some temperaments, however, the impression produced by the season is overpowering from excess of excitation, and a feeling of sadness is generated amidst gaiety and hope. Burke observes, that the passion of love has in it more of melancholy than of jollity or mirth; and it is the same with impressions made by natural objects, where these impressions are more than commonly deep. They always tend during the highest enjoyment of them, to a pleasing melancholy. The scent of a flower, where the perception of its odour is more exquisite than usual, will do this, and the view of an unclouded evening sky, or a rich setting sun, is uniformly productive of sadness to persons of great sensibility, and even in a limited degree to others. We are seldom aware of the cause of this; but it will often take its departure from the mind, leaving a feeling of mingled admiration and devotion behind.* This perhaps arises from an unconscious regret, that all we are looking at is but for a short time, that the majesty of this "breathing world" will not be much longer for us, and we feel forcibly, though hardly conscious of it, the instability of our being. Who that is arrived at manhood can forget his youthful feelings in May ?-who can forget

"The spot where spring its earliest visits paid?"

Such reminiscences are the food of after-life, and enlighten with a solitary ray of sunshine even the gloom of the grave into which age is tottering. But the majority of mankind have fibres too coarse to vibrate with such impressions, and May is their month of boisterous rapture and unreflecting joy. Even care corrodes the heart less during the reign of this queen of months, for it is then that the tide of being flows to its full height. And why should it not be so?—

Hard his herte that loveth nought

In Mey, when al this mirth is wrought.

Our forefathers paid great honour to the month of May, and the custom of commemorating it is of the most remote antiquity. We must look to the festivals of the Romans, and to their invasion and

* This particular kind of feeling may be understood by the following passage:— "Combien de fois, de ma fenêtre exposée au Nord, j'ai contemplé avec émotion les vastes déserts du ciel, sa voûte superbe, azurée, magnifiquement dessinée, depuis le levant bleuâtre, loin derrière le Pont-au-Change, jusqu'au couchant, dorée, d'une brillante couleur aurore derrière les arbres du cours et les maisons de Chaillot! Je ne manquois pas d'employer ainsi quelques momens à la fin d'un beau jour, et souvent des larmes douces couloient silencieusement de mes yeux ravis, tandis que mon cœur, gouflé d'un sentiment inexprimable, heureux d'être et reconnoissant d'exister, offroit à l'Etre supreme un hommage pur et digne de lui."

Vie privée de Mad. Roland.

conquest of Britain, for the ceremonies afterwards adopted by its inhabitants, relics of which have come down to our day. The Floralia, or games in honour of Flora, were celebrated on the 4th of the Kalends of May, according to Pliny, and continued during the remainder of the month. They were instituted about the year of Rome 613, in honour of Flora, a Sabine Goddess. The notion that Flora was a courtesan appears to rest upon no competent authority. Her image was annually exhibited at Rome, in the temple of Castor and Pollux, dressed in a close dress, and holding bean flowers in her hand. These games might in time have been corrupted, and many of the ceremonies have been exceptionable; but that they were originally instituted to call down a blessing from heaven on the various productions of the land cannot be reasonably doubted. The May games, including dancing, and the display of elegant garlands of flowers, are clearly remnants of Pagan festive worship. Some have contended that the May-pole is of Druid origin, but there is no ground for the supposition; it was at first, most probably, only a substitute for a living tree, on which flowers and offerings were suspended; the cross pieces nailed to it being clearly for the better suspension of them. The May-games too were often held in situations where trees would not be found growing, as in towns or cities.

The sports of May were not always celebrated on the first day of the month, though people generally went to gather May-trees on the 30th of April. The May-tree, or May as it is still called in the West of England, always means there the white thorn, which is commonly in blossom by that day, and which the young people, rising up early in the morning, bring into the towns and villages. It is remarkable, that at Helston, an obscure town in Cornwall, May-day is still kept on the 8th day of the month, and is called the Furry-day, the etymology of which is unknown. There is no stationary May-pole, but green branches of a large size are displayed, decorated with garlands. The doors of all the dwelling-houses are thrown open, and the youth of both sexes, and of all ranks, dance up and down the streets, having wreaths of flowers in their hands. They enter in and come out of the houses dancing, till night closes the scene of festivity. This furry-day is perhaps the most perfect of the remains of the Festival of Flora, in the island. In other parts of Cornwall, May-day is only distinguished by the early rising of the young people of both sexes to gather May, and ramble into the country to breakfast at farm-houses or cottages on milk and clotted cream, a delicacy peculiar to the West of England. In London, the most noted May-pole was formerly affixed in front of St. Andrew's Church, Cornhill. In Fenchurch street, there was also anciently a noted May-game on the 30th of the month, when a lord and lady of the May were chosen. At later periods, Robin Hood was introduced into these sports, and styled lord of the May, together with Maid Marian, his faithful mistress. That the London chimney-sweepers hold the first of May as their holiday is well known. The communion of this nauseous sooty tribe, indigenous only in the corrupted atmospheres of cities, with the natural May, its flowers, and fragrance, is about as inconsistent as a lord and lady mayoress dressed

See Strutt, page 312.

See also note, p. 432.