wrapping her form in the winding-sheet; the coral necklace, the silver bracelet, which adorned her in the days of her youth and beauty! Oh! how, at their sight, all the past rushes back upon my memory! 13. "I seat myself, I take up, one after the other, with a trembling hand, these pledges of bright years gone by. I reopen our letters, grown yellow with time. Here they all are, the paper crumpled from being long carried in the pocket or near the heart,-with their delicate writing, their crossed pages, and with their double and treble postscripts. 14. "O happy age! what overflowings of the heart! what a well of hope! what perfect faith in every exaggeration! From the heights of our enthusiasm we extend our gaze over the four points of the horizon, looking for the wondrous raven that fed the anchorites." It is only when hunger and night are come that we lower our eyes and think of winning our daily bread from the earth, instead of expecting it from the heavens. 15. "While looking over other sacred mementos, and indulging in the painful, but not unpleasant, reflections to which they gave rise, a rap at the door, and a call to other duties, interrupted my meditations, and compelled me, reluctantly, to close the old desk, at which I had so long been sitting." This concluded our friend's reflections upon the contents of the writing-desk. Turning over a few leaves of his diary, he resumed the reading, with the following incident II.-My Blind Acquaintance. 1. "I had long had a speaking acquaintance with a blind man, who was in quite moderate circumstances, and who a Anʼchor-ite, a hermit; a recluse; one who retires from society to avoid the temptations of the world, and devote himself to religious duties. lived near me on the same street; and I had often stopped to exchange a few words with him, when passing his door. At length the blind man, surprised at no longer hearing the sound of my voice at the usual hour of my daily walk, and having learned that I was ill, came to see me; and so pleasant, kind, and cheerful was his manner, in striking contrast with his mournful condition of blindness, that I could not help expressing the pleasure I felt in seeing him so contented and happy. 2. "Then I shall surprise you still more,' he replied, 'when I tell you that my cheerfulness dates from the accident which deprived me of sight. Before that time my disposition was not at all what it should have been. My neighbors all looked upon me as a discontented and morose man; and very justly, too, they so regarded me. 3. "I had met with serious obstacles, and encountered many difficulties, in making my way in the world; for which, no doubt, I have to blame myself as much as others. Indeed, I became disgusted with the world; and, accusing mankind of being harsh and selfish, I treated them accordingly, and my disposition became soured and churlish. But since my loss of sight I have acquired far different ideas. My infirmity has reconciled me to my fellow-creatures. 4. "You can hardly imagine,' he said, laying his hand feelingly on my arm, 'how many proofs of interest, how many acts of kindness, are every day showered on me. It seems as if some benevolent power had posted friends and devoted attendants along my route, as in the fairy tales. When I am in the streets, every one kindly gives place to me, and does all he can to help me along; if I wish to cross a road when carriages are passing, I never fail to find an obliging hand laid upon mine to serve as a guide; if I happen to step with an appearance of hesitation or doubt, immediately some voice, which always appears soft and musical to me, inquires what I have need of, and the unseen questioner offers to become my conductor. 5. "Thus, seeing myself respected and beloved, I love and respect others in my turn; I am satisfied with the world, and with myself. Hence, I dare not complain of my blindness, whatever privations it may impose on me in other respects, since I owe to it what in reality constitutes worldly happiness;-good will toward man-a good disposition of heart, the greatest of earthly blessings.'" 6. When Father Bardou had ended his story of the blind man, Uncle Philip remarked, "That is beautiful." A few more selections from Father Bardou's diary, which he read to us on the same occasion, will close the present chapter. III. More Thoughts upon Growing Old. 1. "To grow old without perceiving aught beyond this world, is to assist, hour by hour, at our own ruin; but for him who has laid up his riches elsewhere, to grow old is to grow near the day in which he shall be paid a hundredfold for all his toils, and cares, and anxieties here. 2. "Youth is a forced apprenticeship, in which one's time, will, intelligence, and capabilities, are the property of one's master. There is something violent in the happiness of that period, which overpowers the feelings-a tendency to excess, which infuses a taste of bitterness in the very cup of pleasure itself. 3. "Slaves to the feverish activity of the blood, we do not stop at enjoyment, but overrun the mark. It is only when time has deadened this impetuosity, between ripe manhood and the decline of life, that we can be happy at our ease; for, while manhood imposes on us fresh duties at every instant, and middle life increases the burden of our responsibilities, old age alone is really free. 4. "It is then that the world, of which we were the slaves, signs, at length, the order of release from daily toil. Ours are, henceforth, the long nights of repose; the walks without any defined object; the uninterrupted chit-chats, the whimsical readings, the hours spent at one's ease; no longer have we at our doors the six week-days crying out to us, like Bluebeard in the popular tale, 'Will you come down there from above?' 5. "It is old age that gives one leisure without remorse. A veteran in the battle of life, one has then the right to watch the daily activities of others without sharing them. His task is done: contemplating the result of his labors, he folds his arms; the last hours of evening belong to himself alone. 6. "And yet, before my body returns to the earth, why should I deny it any of the innocent enjoyments that can gratify it, and send echoes to the soul within? Has not the Almighty himself spread the creation before us, like a never-ending banquet? Has he not said to us, 'Sow the seed, and I will give thee the ear; cultivate the tree, the fruit shall ripen for thee; search the forest, and the rivers, -study the works of the great Creator,—and all that thy knowledge can compass of enjoyment shall be thine'? 7. "Enjoyment is the reward of acquisition. Let us then enjoy, without remorse, what we have won by our labor. O closing days of life! I will not rob you of what Providence has left you. I will not make you more morose than nature has intended; but will rather recall all the joys you still have at command, that they may walk with. you in the light of your setting sun, and accompany you into the eventide with their gentle rays." 8. After Father Bardou had read thus far, he closed his diary, remarking that there is nothing that more forcibly impresses one with the exceeding rapidity of the flight of Time, than the reflections in which old age indulges, when it marshals before it a moving panorama of the scenes and incidents of the past. "In such reflections," said he, "I find great enjoyment; for they always lead me to turn my thoughts to the future, where a vista seems to open, leading far-far onward, into an infinity without end, into which the yearning soul seems about to enter. 9. "Some of your English poets," he remarked, "have given us very faithful and striking sketches of Time's doings." Then he handed Lulu the following piece, which she read aloud at his request : IV.-Time's Song. 1. O'er the level plain, where mountains greet me as I go, 2. War his weary watch was keeping:—I have crushed his spear; 3. Power had won a throne of glory:-where is now his fame? 4. I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild waves' bed," a In some portions of the earth the land is slowly rising—a few inches in a century-so that, where once was the ocean, are now to be seen cultivated fields and meadows. In other places the land is as slowly sinking beneath the waters of the ocean. See Fourth Reader, pp. 328-9. |
