156 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



memory ? But there are other matters the recollection - 

 of which is far moie painful than that of the tooth- 

 ache, and therefore I contend that memory brings us 

 many more pains than pleasuies.' 



We envy not those who are disposed to think with 

 our granite mile-stone friend ; for his language seems 

 to indicate a lamentable want either of virtue or con- 

 tentment. He who has but a moderate share of these, 

 will find some pleasure in recurring to the scenes of 

 by-gone years, however humble his lot in life may be. 

 His brow may never have been encircled by the wreath 

 of victory, he may not be " loved for the dangers he 

 has passed ;" to him the acclamations of the multitude 

 may never have been offered, but yet he can delight 

 to wander back in imagination to the scenes of his boy- 

 hood, to retrace the path along which he has wound 

 his peaceful way, a path that was strewed by many a 

 fadeless flower. 



When we cast a glance upon Memory's page the first 

 sentences upon which the eye can rest, tell us of a 

 father's kindness and a mothers love ; and what a crowd 

 of pleasing, thrilling recollections then come flowing on. 

 We seem to hear again the tales they told us, and the 

 little songs we heard them sing. We seem to wander 

 with our Earliest companions through some well-known 

 and oft -frequented scenes, and again gather those 

 flowers from the garden plot which have long since 

 withered like those who then sharedour harmless mirth. 

 With the rapidity of lightning we run through the 

 thousand freaks and innocent enjoyments of our early 

 days, the sun of our happiness seems still to shine on 

 without a cloud to intercept its rays, and each hour is 

 marked with little else than gladness. The recollection 

 of some distressing accident or some regretted deed 

 may, perhaps, be deeply engraven on the mind, yet this 

 is but as one gloomy cloud in a sky that is otnerwise 

 clear and bright ; one drop of bitterness in the ocean of 

 our youthful joy ; it is but as a pebble upon the beach 

 which is soon washed away into the abyss, by the re- 

 turning waves of early pleasure. 



But we turnover another page of Memory's volume, 



