to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen,--just like
Fanny in the corner there,--and she had eyes like Fanny, and
hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s, and she laughed and
colored just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So,
the young man fell in love directly,--just as Somebody I won’t
mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! He was
teased sometimes,--just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they
quarrelled sometimes,--just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel;
and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every
day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for
one another, and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas
time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to
be married very soon,--all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention
and Fanny!
But the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his
friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never
did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while
without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged
gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?”
And his answer was, “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!”
So, then he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they
went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through
a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in
spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer;
some of the little trees that had come out earliest were even
turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about
the same age with him, who was his wife: and they had children, who
were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood,
cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and
the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.
Sometimes they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper
woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying,
“Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently
they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came
along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded
round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on
together.
Sometimes they came to several avenues at once; and then they all
stood still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to
sea”; and another said, “Father, I am going to India”; and another,
“Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can”; and another,
“Father, I am going to heaven!” So, with many tears at parting,
they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way;
and the child who went to heaven, rose into the golden air and
vanished.
Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the
gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where
the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He
saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. But they never could rest
long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary
for them to be always busy.
At last, there had been so many partings that there were no
children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady
went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and
now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest-trees, began to fall.
So they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were
pressing forward on their journey without looking down it, when the
lady stopped.
“My husband,” said the lady, “I am called.”
They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue
say, “Mother, mother!”
It was the voice of the first child who had said, “I am going to
heaven!” and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very
near. I pray not yet.”
But the voice cried, “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though
his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.
Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark
avenue, and moving away with her arms still around his neck, kissed
him and said, “My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was
gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.
And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the
end of the wood; so near, that they could see the sunset shining
red before them through the trees.
Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the
traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no
reply, and when he passed out of the wood and saw the peaceful
sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man
sitting upon a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, “What do
you here?” And the old man said, with a calm smile, “I am always
remembering. Come and remember with me.”
So, the traveller sat down by the side of the old man, face to
face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back
and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the
young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of
them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and
was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to
watch them all, and they all honored and loved him. And I think the
traveller must be yourself, dear grandfather, because it is what
you do to us, and what we do to you.
[Illustration]
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent[B];
But now your head’s turned bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty[C] day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
[B] Smooth.
[C] Merry.
When thoughtful people sing these admirable verses, they are
apt to long to hear of something _beyond_ the foot of the hill.
This want has been extremely well supplied by Mr. Charles
Gould, of New York, in the following verse:--
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we have slept thegither
The sleep that a’ maun sleep, John,
We’ll wake wi’ ane anither:
And in that better warld, John,
Nae sorrow shall we know;
Nor fear we e’er shall part again,
John Anderson, my jo.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
More pleasant seem their own surroundings,
Though quaint and old,
Than newer homes, with their aboundings
Of marble, silk, and gold.
For ’tis the heart inspires home-feelings,
In hut or hall,
Where memory, with its fond revealings,
Sheds a tender light o’er all.
They love the wonted call to meeting,
By their old bell;
They love the old familiar greeting
From friends who know them well.
Their homesick hearts are always yearning,
When they’re away;
And ever is their memory turning
To scenes where they used to stay.
L. M. C.
[Illustration]
EVERLASTING YOUTH.
BY REV. EDMUND H. SEARS.[D]
[D] From Foregleams of Immortality.
Old age, in some of its aspects, is a most interesting and solemn
mystery, though to the outward eye it is merely the gradual waning
and extinction of existence. All the faculties fold themselves up
to a long, last sleep. First, the senses begin to close, and lock
in the soul from the outward world. The hearing is generally the
first to fail, shutting off the mind from the tones of affection
and of melody. The sight fails next; and the pictures of beauty,
on the canvas spread round us morning and evening, become blurred.
The doors and windows are shut toward the street. The invasion
keeps on steadily toward the seat of life. The images of the memory
lose their outline, run together, and at last melt away into
darkness. Now and then, by a special effort, rents are made in
the clouds, and we see a vista opening through the green glades
of other years. But the edges of the cloud soon close again. It
settles down more densely than ever, and all the past is blotted
out. Then the reason fails, and the truths it had elaborated
flicker and are extinguished. Only the affections remain. Happy
for us, if these also have not become soured or chilled. It is our
belief, however, that these _may_ be preserved in their primitive
freshness and glow; and that in the old age where the work of
regeneration is consummating, the affections are always preserved
bright and sweet, like roses of Eden, occupying a charmed spot in
the midst of snows. In old age, men generally seem to have grown
either better or worse. The reason is, that the internal life is
then more revealed, and its spontaneous workings are more fully
manifested. The intellectual powers are no longer vigilant to
control the expression of the internal feelings, and so the heart
is generally laid open. What we call the moroseness and peevishness
of age is none other than the real disposition, no longer hedged
in, and kept in decency, by the intellect, but coming forth without
disguise. So again, that beautiful simplicity and infantile
meekness, sometimes apparent in old age, beaming forth, like the
dawn of the coming heaven, through all the relics of natural decay,
are the spontaneous effusions of sanctified affections. There
is, therefore, a good and a bad sense, in which we speak of the
second childhood. Childhood is the state of spontaneity. In the
first childhood, before the intellect is formed, the heart answers
truly to all impressions from without; as the Æolian harp answers
to every touch of the breeze. In the second childhood, after the
intellect is broken down, the same phenomenon comes round again;
and in it you read the history of all the intervening years. What
those years have done for the regeneration of the soul will appear,
now that its inmost state is translucent, no longer concealed by
the expediencies learned of intellectual prudence. When the second
childhood is true and genial, the work of regeneration approaches
its consummation; and the light of heaven is reflected from silver
hairs, as if one stood nearer to Paradise, and caught reflections
of the resurrection glories.
But alas! is this _all_ that is left of us, amid the memorials
of natural decay? Senses, memory, reason, all blotted out,
in succession, and instinctive affection left _alone_ to its
spontaneous workings, like a solitary flower breathing its
fragrance upon snows? And how do we know but _this_, too, will
close up its leaves, and fall before the touch of the invader? Then
the last remnant of the man is no more. Or, if otherwise, must so
many souls enter upon their immortality denuded of everything but
the heart’s inmost and ruling love?
How specious and deceptive are natural appearances! What _seemed_
to the outward eye the waning of existence, and the loss of
faculties, is only locking them up successively, in order to keep
them more secure. Old age, rather than death, answers strictly to
the analogies of _sleep_. It is the gradual folding in and closing
up of all the voluntary powers, after they have become worn and
tired, that they may wake again refreshed and renovated for the
higher work that awaits them. The psychological evidence is pretty
full and decisive, that old age is sleep, but not decay. The reason
lives, though its eye is temporarily closed; and some future day it
will give a more perfect and pliant form to the affections. Memory
remains, though its functions are suspended for a while. All its
chambers may be exhumed hereafter, and their frescoes, like those
of the buried temples at Meroë, will be found preserved in unfading
colors. The _whole_ record of our life is laid up _within_ us; and
only the overlayings of the physical man prevent the record from
being always visible. The years leave their _débris_ successively
upon the spiritual nature, till it seems buried and lost beneath
the layers. On the old man’s memory every period seems to have
obliterated a former one; but the life which he has lived can no
more be lost to him, or destroyed, than the rock-strata can be
destroyed by being buried under layers of sand. In those hours
when the bondage of the senses is less firm, and the life within
has freer motion; or, in those hours of self-revelation, which are
sometimes experienced under a clearer and more pervading light
from above,--the past withdraws its veil; and we see, rank beyond
rank, as along the rows of an expanding amphitheatre, the images
of successive years, called out as by some wand of enchantment.
There are abundant facts, which go to prove that the decline and
forgetfulness of years are nothing more than the hardening of the
mere _envelopment_ of the man, shutting in the inmost life, which
merely waits the hour to break away from its bondage.
De Quincey says: “I am assured that there is no such thing as
_forgetting_ possible to the mind. A thousand circumstances may
and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and
the secret inscriptions of the mind; but alike, whether veiled or
unveiled, the inscription remains forever; just as the stars _seem_
to withdraw from the common light of day; whereas, we all know that
it is the light which is drawn over them, as a veil, and that they
are waiting to be revealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have
withdrawn.”
The resurrection is the exact inverse of natural decay; and the
former is preparing ere the latter has ended. The affections, being
the inmost life, are the nucleus of the whole man. They are the
creative and organific centre, whence are formed the reason and
the memory, and thence their embodiment in the more outward form
of members and organs. The whole interior mechanism is complete in
the chrysalis, ere the wings, spotted with light, are fluttering
in the zephyrs of morning. St. Paul, who, in this connection,
is speaking specially of the resurrection of the just, presents
three distinct points of contrast between the natural body and the
spiritual. One is weak, the other is strong. One is corruptible,
the other is incorruptible. One is without honor, the other is
glorious. By saying that one is natural, and the other spiritual,
he certainly implies that one is better adapted than the other
to do the functions of spirit, and more perfectly to organize
and manifest its powers. How clearly conceivable then is it that
when man becomes free of the coverings of mere natural decay, he
comes into complete possession of all that he is, and all that he
has ever lived; that leaf after leaf in our whole book of life is
opened backward, and all its words and letters come out in more
vivid colors!
In the other life, therefore, appears the wonderful paradox that
the oldest people are the youngest. To grow in age is to come into
everlasting youth. To become old in years is
to put on the freshness of perpetual
prime. We drop from us the _débris_
of the past, we breathe the
ether of immortality, and
our cheeks mantle
with eternal
bloom.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LIFE.
The following lines were by Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld, an
English writer of great merit, extensively known as the author
of excellent Hymns, and Early Lessons for Children. She was
born in 1743, and lived to be nearly eighty-two years old. She
employed the latter part of her life in editing a series of the
best English novels and essays, accompanied with biographical
sketches of the authors; and compositions in prose and verse
continued to be her favorite occupation to the last.
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me’s a secret yet.
Life! we have been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather.
’Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear.
Then steal away; give little warning;
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night; but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning!
[Illustration]
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
There was a traveller who set out upon a new road, not knowing
whither it would lead him, nor whence he came, for he had been
conveyed thither blindfold, and the bandage had been removed in
his sleep. When he woke up he found himself among all sorts of
pretty novelties, and he ran about hither and thither, eagerly
asking, “What is this?” “What is that?” His activity was untiring.
He tried to catch everything he saw, and hold it fast in his hand.
But humming-birds whirred in his ears, and as soon as he tried to
grasp them they soared up out of his reach, and left him gazing
at their burnished throats glistening in the sunshine. Daintily
painted butterflies poised themselves on such lowly flowers, that
he thought he had but to stoop and take them; but they also floated
away as soon as he approached. He walked through stately groves,
where the sunshine was waltzing with leaf-shadows, and he tried to
pick up the airy little dancers. “They won’t let me catch ’em!” he
exclaimed, petulantly. But on he hurried in pursuit of a squirrel,
which ran nimbly away from him up into a tree, and there he sat on
the high boughs, flourishing his pretty tail in the air. And so the
traveller went along the wondrous road, always trying for something
he couldn’t catch, not knowing that the pleasure was in the pursuit.
As he went on, the path widened and grew more attractive. Birds
of radiant colors flitted about, and filled the air with charming
variations of melody. Trees threw down showers of blossoms as
he passed, and beneath his feet was a carpet of emerald-colored
velvet, embroidered with a profusion of golden stars. Better than
all, troops of handsome young men and lovely maidens joined him,
all put blindfolded into the road, and travelling they knew not
whither. And now they all set out upon a race after something
higher up than squirrels or butterflies could go. “Look there!
Look there! See what is before us!” they exclaimed. And lo!
they all saw, away beyond, on hills of fleecy cloud, the most
beautiful castles! The walls were of pearl, and rainbow pennons
waved from the gold-pointed turrets. “We will take possession of
those beautiful castles! That is where we are going to live!” they
shouted to each other; and on they ran in pursuit of the rainbows.
But they often paused in the chase, to frolic together. They
laughed, and sang merry songs, and pelted each other with flowers,
and danced within a ring of roses. It was a beautiful sight to see
their silky ringlets tossed about by the breeze, and shining in
the sunlight. But the game they liked best was looking into each
other’s eyes. They said they could see a blind boy there, with a
bow and arrow; and always they were playing bo-peep with that blind
boy, who wasn’t so blind as he seemed; for whenever he aimed his
arrow at one of them, he was almost sure to hit. But they said the
arrow was wreathed with flowers, and carried honey on its point;
and there was nothing they liked quite so well as being shot at by
the blind boy.
Sometimes their sport was interrupted by some stern-looking
traveller, who said to them, in solemn tones, “Why do you make such
fools of yourselves? Do you know whither this road leads?” Then
they looked at each other bewildered, and said they did not. “I
have been on this road much longer than you have,” he replied; “and
I think it is my duty to turn back sometimes and warn those who
are coming after me. I tell you this road, where you go dancing so
carelessly, abounds with pitfalls, generally concealed by flowers;
and it ends in an awful, deep, dark hole. You are all running, like
crazy fools, after rainbow castles in the air. You will never
come up with them. They will vanish and leave nothing but a great
black cloud. But what you have most to fear is a cruel giant, who
is sure to meet you somewhere on the road. Nobody ever knows where;
for he is invisible. Whatever he touches with his dart turns first
to marble and then to ashes. You ought to be thinking of _him_ and
his dreadful arrow, instead of the foolish archer that you call
the blind boy. Instead of chattering about roses and rainbows, you
ought to be thinking of the awful black pit at the end of the road.”
His words chilled the young men and maidens, like wind from a
cavern. They looked at each other thoughtfully, and said, “Why does
he try to spoil our sport with stories of pitfalls and invisible
giants? We don’t know where the pitfalls are; and if we go poking
on the ground for them, how can we see the sunshine and the birds?”
Some of the more merry began to laugh at the solemn traveller, and
soon they were all dancing again, or hurrying after the rainbow
castles. They threw roses at each other by the way; and often the
little blind archer was in the heart of the roses, and played them
mischievous tricks. They laughed merrily, and said to each other,
“This is a beautiful road. It is a pity old Howlit don’t know how
to enjoy it.”
But as our traveller passed on his way, he found that the words of
the lugubrious prophet were sometimes verified. Now and then some
of his companions danced into pitfalls covered with flowers. He
himself slipped several times, but recovered his balance, and said
it would teach him to walk more carefully. Others were bruised and
faint in consequence of falls, and made no effort to rise up. In
the kindness of his heart, he would not leave them thus; but always
he tried to cheer them, saying, “Up, and try again, my brother! You
won’t make the same mistake again.” Cheerful and courageous as he
was, however, he saw the rainbow castles gradually fading from his
vision; but they did not leave a great black cloud, as the solemn
traveller had foretold; they melted into mild and steady sunlight.
The young men and maidens, who had frolicked with him, went off in
pairs, some into one bypath, some into another. Hand in hand with
our traveller went a gentle companion, named Mary, in whose eyes
he had long been playing at bo-peep with the blind boy. When they
talked of this, they said they could still see him in each other’s
eye-mirrors, but now he had put his arrows into the quiver, and was
stringing pearls. Mary brought little children to her companion,
and they were more charming than all the playthings of their former
time. They gazed fondly into the eyes of the little strangers, and
said, “We see angels in these azure depths, and they are lovelier
than the blind boy ever was.” They played no more with roses now,
but gathered ripe fruits, glowing like red and purple jewels, and
planted grain which grew golden in the sunshine. Companions with
whom they had parted by the way occasionally came into their path
again, as they journeyed on. Their moods were various, according to
their experiences. Some still talked joyfully of the ever-varying
beauty of the road. Others sighed deeply, and said they had found
nothing to console them for withered roses, and rainbows vanished.
Sometimes, when inquiries were made about former acquaintances,
the answer was that the invisible giant had touched them, and they
had changed to marble. Then a shadow seemed to darken the pleasant
road, and they spoke to each other in low tones. Some of those who
sighed over withered roses, told of frightful things done by this
invisible giant, and of horrid places whither they had heard he
conveyed his victims. To children who were chasing butterflies,
and to young men and maidens who were twining rose-wreaths, they
said, “You ought not to be wasting your time with such frivolous
pastimes; you ought to be thinking of the awful invisible one, who
is near us when we least think of it.” They spoke in lugubrious
tones, as the solemn traveller had aforetime spoken to them. But
our traveller, who was cheerful of heart, said: “It is not kind to
throw a shadow across their sunshine. Let them enjoy themselves.”
And his Mary asked whether HE who made the beautiful road had
wasted time when HE _made_ the roses and the butterflies? And _why_
had HE made them, if they were not to be enjoyed?