of the little cherub boys whom Mary had brought to her companion
received the invisible touch, and became as marble. Then a shadow
fell across their path, and went with them as they walked. They
pressed each other’s hands in silence, but the thought was ever
in their hearts, “Whom will he touch next?” The little cherub was
not _in_ the marble form; he was still with them, though they knew
it not. Gradually their pain was softened, and they found comfort
in remembering his winning ways. Mary said to her companion: “As
we have travelled along this mysterious road, the scenery has
been continually changing, even as we have changed. But one form
of beauty has melted into another, so gently, so imperceptibly,
that we have been unconscious of the change, until it had passed.
Where all is so full of blessing, dearest, it cannot be that this
invisible touch is an exception.” The traveller sighed, and merely
answered, “It is a great mystery”; but her words fell on his heart
like summer dew on thirsty flowers. They thought of the cherub
boy, who had disappeared from their vision, and the tears dropped
slowly; but as they fell, a ray of light from heaven kissed them
and illumined them with rainbows. They clasped each other’s hands
more closely, and travelled on. Sometimes they smiled at each
other, as they looked on their remaining little ones, running
hither and thither chasing the bright butterflies. And Mary, who
was filled with gentle wisdom, said, “The butterfly was once a
crawling worm; but when it became stiff and cold, there emerged
from it this wingéd creature, clothed with beauty.” He pressed her
hand tenderly; for again her soothing words fell upon his heart
like dew on thirsty flowers.
Thus lovingly they passed on together, and many a blessing followed
them; for whenever a traveller came along who was burdened and
weary, they cheered him with hopeful words and helped to carry
his load; and ever as they did so a softer light shone upon
the landscape and bathed all things with a luminous glory. And
still the scene was changing, ever changing. The glowing fruit
had disappeared, and the golden grain was gathered. But now the
forest-trees were all aglow, and looked like great pyramids of
gorgeous flowers. The fallen foliage of the pines formed a soft
carpet under their feet, ornamented with the shaded brown of cones
and acorns, and sprinkled with gold-tinted leaves from the trees.
As they looked on the mellowed beauty of the scenery, Mary said:
“The Being who fashioned us, and created this marvellous road for
us to travel in, must be wondrously wise and loving. How gradually
and gently all things grow, and pass through magical changes. When
we had had enough of chasing butterflies, the roses came to bind
us together in fragrant wreaths. When the roses withered, the
grain-fields waved beautifully in the wind, and purple and yellow
grapes hung from the vines, like great clusters of jewels. And now,
when fruit and grain are gathered, the forests are gorgeous in the
sunlight, like immense beds of tulips. A friendly ‘Good morning’
to something new, mingles ever with the ‘Good night, beloved,’
to something that is passing away. Surely, dearest, this road,
so full of magical transformations, _must_ lead us to something
more beautiful than itself.” The traveller uncovered his head,
raised his eyes reverently toward heaven, and said: “It is a great
mystery. O Father, give us faith!”
Before the glowing tints departed from the trees, Mary’s cheek grew
pale, and the light of her eyes began to fade. Then the traveller
shuddered and shivered; for a great shadow came between him and
the sunshine; he felt the approach of the invisible. More and
more closely he pressed the beloved companion, to warm her with
his heart. But her mild eyes closed, and the graceful form became
as marble. No more could he look into those serene depths, where
he had first seen the blind boy shooting his arrows, afterward
stringing pearls, and then as an angel twining amaranthine crowns.
In the anguish of his desolation, he groaned aloud, and exclaimed:
“O thou Dread Destroyer! take me, too! I cannot live alone! I
cannot!” A gentle voice whispered, “Thou art not alone, dearest.
I am still with thee!” but in the tumult of his grief he heard it
not. The children Mary had given him twined their soft arms about
his neck, and said: “Do not leave us alone! We cannot find our way,
without thee to guide us.” For their sakes, he stifled his groans,
and knelt down and prayed, “O Father, give me strength and faith!”
Patiently he travelled on, leading the children. By degrees they
joined themselves to companions, and went off in pairs into new
paths, as he and his Mary had done. The scenery around him grew
more dreary. The black branches of the trees stood in gloomy relief
against a cold gray sky. The beautiful fields of grain ripening
in the sunshine had changed to dry stubble fluttering mournfully
in the wind. But Nature, loath to part with Beauty, still wore a
few red berries, as a necklace among her rags, and trimmed her
scanty garments with evergreen. But the wonderful transformations
had not ceased. The fluttering brown rags suddenly changed to
the softest ermine robe, flashing with diamonds, and surmounted
by a resplendent silver crown. The magical change reminded our
traveller that his lost companion had said, “Surely a road so full
of beautiful changes must lead to something more beautiful than
itself.” Again he knelt in reverence, and said, “All things around
me are miraculous. O Father, give me faith!”
The road descended into a deep valley, ever more narrow and dark.
The nights grew longer. The ground was rugged and frozen, and the
rough places hurt the pilgrim’s stiff and weary feet. But when he
was joined by pilgrims more exhausted than himself, he spoke to
them in words of good cheer, and tried to help them over the rough
places. The sunshine was no longer warm and golden, but its silvery
light was still beautiful, and through the leafless boughs of the
trees the moon and the stars looked down serenely on him. The
children whom he had guided sometimes came and sang sweetly to him;
and sometimes, when he was listening in the stillness, he seemed to
hear mysterious echoes within himself, as if from a musical chime
of bells on the other side of a river.
The shudderings and shiverings he had felt in presence of the cold
shadow became more frequent; and he said to himself, “The Dread
Destroyer is approaching more and more near.” With trembling hands
he uncovered his snow-white head, and looking upward, he said,
“It is a fearful mystery. O Father, give me faith!” Praying thus,
he sank on the cold ground, and sleepiness came over him. He felt
something gently raising him, and slowly opening his eyes, he said,
“Who art thou?” The stranger answered, “I am that Dread Destroyer,
whose shadow always made thee shudder.”
“Thou!” exclaimed the tired pilgrim, in tones of joyful surprise;
“why _thou_ art an angel!” “Yes, I am an angel,” he replied; “and
none but I can lead thee to thy loved ones. Thy Heavenly Father has
sent me to take thee home.” Gratefully the weary one sank into the
arms of the giant he had so much dreaded. “All things are ordered
in love,” he said. “Thy touch is friendly, and thy voice like
music.”
They passed a narrow bridge over a dark river. On the other side
was a flowery arch, bearing the motto, “The Gate of Life.” Within
it stood Mary and her cherub-boy, shining in transfigured light.
The child stretched out his hands for an embrace, and Mary’s
welcoming smile was more beautiful than it had ever been in the
happy old time of roses and rainbows. “This is only one more of the
magical transformations, my beloved,” she said. “It is as I told
thee. The beautiful, mysterious road leads to something far more
beautiful than itself. Come and see!” With tender joy he kissed her
and the angel child. There was a sound of harps and voices above
him, singing, “The shadow has departed!” And a cheerful response
came from well-remembered voices he had left behind him on the
road: “We are coming! We are coming!” Through all the chambers
of his soul went ringing the triumphant chorus, “The shadow has
departed!” with the cheerful response, “We are coming! We are
coming!”
[Illustration]
THE HAPPIEST TIME.
BY ELIZA COOK.
An old man sat in his chimney-seat,
As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet;
And he watched the Spring light as it came
With wider ray on his window frame.
He looked right on to the Eastern sky,
But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,
And those who heard it wondered much
What Spirit hand made him feel its touch.
For the old man was not one of the fair
And sensitive plants in earth’s parterre;
His heart was among the senseless things,
That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee’s wings;
It bore no film of delicate pride,
No dew of emotion gathered inside;
O, that old man’s heart was of hardy kind,
That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.
He had lived in the world as millions live,
Ever more ready to take than give;
He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,
And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;
He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,
Till upwards of threescore years were told;
And his keen blue eye held nothing to show
That feeling had ever been busy below.
The old man sighed again, and hid
His keen blue eye beneath its lid;
And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,
Was knitting itself in a painful frown.
“I’ve been looking back,” the old man said,
“On every spot where my path has laid,
Over every year my brain can trace,
To find the happiest time and place.”
“And where and when,” cried one by his side,
“Have you found the brightest wave in your tide?
Come tell me freely, and let me learn,
How the spark was struck that yet can burn.
Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,
With the blood of youth, and felt that at length
Your stout right arm could win its bread?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Then it must have been when love had come,
With a faithful bride to glad your home;
Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,
And your bosom cradled its own sweet child;
Or was it when that first-born joy,
Grew up to your hope,--a brave, strong boy,--
And promised to fill the world in your stead?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Say, was it then when fortune brought
The round sum you had frugally sought?
Was the year the happiest that beheld
The vision of poverty all dispelled?
Or was it when you still had more,
And found you could boast a goodly store
With labor finished and plenty spread?”
The old man quietly shook his head.
“Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago,”
The old man muttered,--sadly and low!
“It was when I took my lonely way
To the lonely woods in the month of May.
When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,
With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough;
When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree;
O, that was the happiest time for me.
“When I used to leap and laugh and shout,
Though I never knew what my joy was about;
And something seemed to warm my breast,
As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.
That was the time; when I used to roll
On the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,
And I never could tell why the thought should be,
But I fancied the flowers talked to me.
“Well I remember climbing to reach
A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;
Well I remember the lilies so sweet,
That I toiled with back to the city street;
Yes, _that_ was the time,--the happiest time,--
When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”
And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,
And the lid fell closer over his eye.
O, who would have thought this hard old man
Had room in his heart for such rainbow span?
Who would have deemed that wild copse flowers
Were tenderly haunting his latest hours?
But what did the old man’s spirit tell,
In confessing it loved the woods so well?
What do we learn from the old man’s sigh,
But that _Nature and Poetry cannot die_?
ODE OF ANACREON.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.
The women tell me, every day,
That all my bloom has passed away.
“Behold!” the lively lasses cry,
“Behold this mirror with a sigh!
Old wintry Time has shed his snows,
And bald and bare your forehead shows.”
I will not either think or care
Whether old Time has thinned my hair;
But this I know and this I feel,
As years advancing on me steal,
And ever bring the end more near,
The joys of life become more dear;
And had I but one hour to live,
That hour to cheerfulness I’d give.
[Illustration]
CICERO’S ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
The following extracts are from a discourse “De Senectute,”
by Cicero, the world-renowned Roman orator, who was born one
hundred and six years before Christ. He is one among many
pleasant proofs that God never leaves himself without a witness
in the hearts of men, in any age or country. Cicero says:
“I have represented these reflections as delivered by the
venerable Cato; but in delivering _his_ sentiments, I desire to
be understood as fully declaring _my own_.”
Those who have no internal resources of happiness will find
themselves uneasy in every stage of human life; but to him who is
accustomed to derive happiness from within himself, no state will
appear as a real evil into which he is conducted by the common and
regular course of Nature; and this is peculiarly the case with
respect to old age. I follow Nature, as the surest guide, and
resign myself with implicit obedience to her sacred ordinances.
After having wisely distributed peculiar and proper enjoyments
to all the preceding periods of life, it cannot be supposed that
she would neglect the last, and leave it destitute of suitable
advantages. After a certain point of maturity is attained, marks of
decay must necessarily appear; but to this unavoidable condition
of his present being every wise and good man will submit with
contented and cheerful acquiescence.
Nothing can be more void of foundation than the assertion that old
age necessarily disqualifies a man for taking part in the great
affairs of the world. If an old man cannot perform in business a
part which requires the bodily strength and energy of more vigorous
years, he can act in a nobler and more important character.
Momentous affairs of state are not conducted by corporeal strength
and activity; they require cool deliberation, prudent counsel, and
authoritative influence; qualifications which are strengthened and
improved by increase of years. Few among mankind arrive at old
age; and this suggests a reason why the affairs of the world are
not better conducted; for age brings experience, discretion, and
judgment, without which no well-formed government could have been
established, or can be maintained. Appius Claudius was not only old
but blind, when he remonstrated in the Senate, with so much force
and spirit, against concluding a peace with Pyrrhus. The celebrated
General Quintus Maximus led our troops to battle in his old age,
with as much spirit as if he had been in the prime and vigor of
life. It was by his advice and eloquence, when he was extremely
old, that the Cincian law concerning donatives was enacted. And
it was not merely in the conspicuous paths of the world that this
excellent man was truly great. He appeared still greater in the
private and domestic scenes of life. There was a dignity in his
deportment, tempered with singular politeness and affability; and
time wrought no alteration in his amiable qualities. How pleasing
and instructive was his conversation! How profound his knowledge of
antiquity and the laws! His memory was so retentive, that there was
no event of any note, connected with our public affairs, with which
he was not well acquainted. I eagerly embraced every opportunity
to enjoy his society, feeling that after his death I should never
again meet with so wise and improving a companion.
But it is not necessary to be a hero or a statesman, in order to
lead an easy and agreeable old age. That season of life may prove
equally serene and pleasant to him who has passed his days in
the retired paths of learning. It is urged that old age impairs
the memory. It may have that effect on those in whom memory was
originally infirm, or who have not preserved its native vigor
by exercising it properly. But the faculties of the mind will
preserve their power in old age, unless they are suffered to
become languid for want of due cultivation. Caius Gallus employed
himself to the very last moments of his long life in measuring the
distances of the heavenly orbs, and determining the dimensions of
this our earth. How often has the sun risen on his astronomical
calculations! How frequently has night overtaken him in the same
elevated studies! With what delight did he amuse himself in
predicting to us, long before they happened, the several lunar and
solar eclipses! Other ingenious applications of the mind there
are, though of a lighter nature, which may greatly contribute to
enliven and amuse the decline of life. Thus Nœvius, in composing
his poem on the Carthaginian war, and Plautus in writing his two
last comedies, filled up the leisure of their latter days with
wonderful complacency and satisfaction. I can affirm the same of
our dramatic poet Livius, whom I remember to have seen in his old
age; and let me not forget Marcus Cethegus, justly styled the soul
of eloquence, whom I likewise saw in his old age exercising even
his oratorical talents with uncommon force and vivacity. All these
old men I saw pursuing their respective studies with the utmost
ardor and alacrity. Solon, in one of his poems, written when he was
advanced in years, glories that he learned something every day he
lived. Plato occupied himself with philosophical studies, till they
were interrupted by death at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates
composed his famous discourse when he was ninety-four years old,
and he lived five years afterward. Sophocles continued to write
tragedies when he was extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle
to the philosophic pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno, Cleanthes, or
the venerable Diogenes. These eminent persons persevered in their
studies with undiminished earnestness to the last moment of their
extended lives. Leontinus Gorgias, who lived to be one hundred and
seven years old, pursued his studies with unremitting assiduity
to the last. When asked if he did not wish to rid himself of the
burden of such prolonged years, he replied, “I find no reason to
complain of old age.”
The statement that age impairs our strength is not without
foundation. But, after all, imbecility of body is more frequently
caused by youthful irregularities than by the natural and
unavoidable consequences of long life. By temperance and exercise,
a man may secure to his old age no inconsiderable degree of his
former spirit and activity. The venerable Lucius Metellus preserved
such a florid old age to his last moments, as to have no reason to
lament the depredations of time. If it must be acknowledged that
time inevitably undermines physical strength, it is equally true
that great bodily vigor is not required in the decline of life. A
moderate degree of force is sufficient for all rational purposes.
I no more regret the absence of youthful vigor, than when young I
lamented because I was not endowed with the strength of a bull or
an elephant. Old age has, at least, sufficient strength remaining
to train the rising generation, and instruct them in the duties
to which they may hereafter be called; and certainly there cannot
be a more important or a more honorable occupation. There is
satisfaction in communicating every kind of useful knowledge; and
it must render a man happy to employ the faculties of his mind to
so noble and beneficial a purpose, how much soever time may have
impaired his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the evening of
life, are generally fond of associating with the younger part of
the world, and, when they discover amiable qualities in them, they
find it an alleviation of their infirmities to gain their affection
and esteem; and well-inclined young men think themselves equally
happy to be guided into the paths of knowledge and virtue by the
instructions of experienced elders. I love to see the fire of youth
somewhat tempered by the sobriety of age, and it is also pleasant
to see the gravity of age enlivened by the vivacity of youth.
Whoever combines these two qualities in his character will never
exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though his body may bear
the marks of years.
As for the natural and necessary inconveniences attendant upon
length of years, we ought to counteract their progress by constant
and resolute opposition. The infirmities of age should be resisted
like the approaches of disease. To this end we should use regular
and moderate exercise, and merely eat and drink as much as is
necessary to repair our strength, without oppressing the organs of
digestion. And the intellectual faculties, as well as the physical,
should be carefully assisted. Mind and body thrive equally by
suitable exercise of their powers; with this difference, however,
that bodily exertion ends in fatigue, whereas the mind is never
wearied by its activity.
Another charge against old age is that it deprives us of sensual
gratifications. Happy effect, indeed, to be delivered from those
snares which allure youth into some of the worst vices! “Reason,”
said Archytas, “is the noblest gift which God or Nature has
bestowed on men. Now nothing is so great an enemy to that divine
endowment as the pleasures of sense; for neither temperance,
nor any of the more exalted virtues, can find a place in that
breast which is under the dominion of voluptuous passions.
Imagine to yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of the highest
gratifications mere animal nature is capable of receiving; there
can be no doubt that during his continuance in that state it
would be utterly impossible for him to exert any one power of his
rational faculties.” The inference I draw from this is, that if
the principles of reason and virtue have not proved sufficient to
inspire us with proper contempt for mere sensual pleasures, we
have cause to feel grateful to old age for at least weaning us
from appetites it would ill become us to gratify; for voluptuous
passions are utter enemies to all the nobler faculties of the
soul; they hold no communion with the manly virtues; and they
cast a mist before the eye of reason. The little relish which old
age leaves us for enjoyments merely sensual, instead of being
a disparagement to that period of life, considerably enhances
its value. If age renders us incapable of taking an equal share
in the flowing cups and luxurious dishes of wealthy tables, it
thereby secures us from painful indigestion, restless nights, and
disordered reason.
But though his years will guard an old man from excess, they by
no means exclude him from enjoying convivial gratifications in
a moderate degree. I always took singular satisfaction in the
anniversaries of those little societies called Confraternities. But
the gratification I received from their entertainments arose much
less from the pleasures of the palate than from the opportunities
they afforded for enjoying the company and conversation of friends.
I derive so much pleasure from hours devoted to cheerful discourse,
that I love to prolong my meals, not only when the company is
composed of men of my own years, few of whom indeed are now
remaining, but also when it chiefly consists of young persons. And
I acknowledge my obligations to old age for having increased my
passion for the pleasures of conversation, while it has abated it
for those which depend solely on the palate; though I do not find
myself disqualified for that species of gratification, also.
The advantages of age are inestimable, if we consider it as
delivering us from the tyranny of lust and ambition, from angry
and contentious passions, from inordinate and irrational desires;
in a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look
for happiness in our own souls. If to these moral benefits, which
naturally result from length of days, be added the sweet food of
the mind, gathered in the fields of science, I know of no season of
life that is passed more agreeably than the learned leisure of a
virtuous old age. Can the luxuries of the table, or the amusements
of the theatre, supply their votaries with enjoyments worthy to be
compared with the calm delights of intellectual employments? And,
in minds rightly formed and properly cultivated, these exalted
delights never fail to improve and gather strength with years.