years, so that their new-born infant should not be defrauded of his
lifetime. A youthful poet murmured because there would be no
posterity to recognize the inspiration of his song. The reformers,
one and all, demanded a few thousand years to test their theories,
after which the universe might go to wreck. A mechanician, who was
busied with an improvement of the steam-engine, asked merely time to
perfect his model. A miser insisted that the world's destruction
would be a personal wrong to himself, unless he should first be
permitted to add a specified sum to his enormous heap of gold. A
little boy made dolorous inquiry whether the last day would come
before Christmas, and thus deprive him of his anticipated dainties.
In short, nobody seemed satisfied that this mortal scene of things
should have its close just now. Yet, it must be confessed, the
motives of the crowd for desiring its continuance were mostly so
absurd, that unless infinite Wisdom had been aware of much better
reasons, the solid earth must have melted away at once.

For my own part, not to speak of a few private and personal ends, I
really desired our old mother's prolonged existence for her own dear
sake.

"The poor old earth!" I repeated. "What I should chiefly regret in
her destruction would be that very earthliness which no other sphere
or state of existence can renew or compensate. The fragrance of
flowers and of new-mown hay; the genial warmth of sunshine, and the
beauty of a sunset among clouds; the comfort and cheerful glow of
the fireside; the deliciousness of fruits and of all good cheer; the
magnificence of mountains, and seas, and cataracts, and the softer
charm of rural scenery; even the fast-falling snow and the gray
atmosphere through which it descends,--all these and innumerable