ABSTRACT
I WRITE to you from Montreuil fur Mar, where I shall pass two or three weeks in my way to England. We left Paris the latter end of April, and found the country covered with that first fresh tint of spring which is so lovely, but so transient. The trees were white with blossoms; and nature, full of youth, hope, and joy, wore the aspect of all others the most enchanting to the eye, and the most soothing to the imagination. Yet the contemplation of returning spring naturally leads the mind to recall the springs that are past, and to take a retrospect of life: and those in whom such a retrospect excites no melancholy reflections must surely be either peculiarly fortunate, or peculiarly insensible.
