Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1862-12-24
REVER7ES.


AS the year eighteen hundred and SIXTY
two draws to Il close. we like TO think of this
dear old earth Of ours, when Eve and Adam
loved ard sirned and suffered, and when their
sons and daughters occasionally followed in
their footprints. in and ont of Eden. as kind
old lady whose merricst and sweetest thoughts
are on bir.s and flowers.
Nature, it seems, does not fret herself about
our little vexed mortalites. For lis she does
not even wrinkle her azure brow-the infin
itely sweet sky looks down TRANQUILITY upon
the troubled features Of her waking or sleep
ing children. The misery caused by this
wicked war, and the prospect of whipping
the traitors, and the possibility of speedy
peace, leave no trace the rosy east of the
morning sky. however they rise like fog from
the face OF the daily papers. These things
are born perhaps of the weather, and the good
old mother earth takes no notice of them
The omnipotent weathercock, in shine or
shadow, is omnicient on the steeple; while
mother earth Laugh over the death-bed of
men and the funeral train of nations
As this is the last month in this year we
may wisely say that life is way. journey.
pilgrimage, and all mortals are pilgrims
To-day the wandering Yankee, who in our
nineteenth century may be a pedder with
knapsack on his back, dealing out grape and
canister to the rebels, while We stand by the
waysde and read upon the outworn face of
some human image, an old man. with chiid's
dreaming eyes resting under the snow-veii of
his bosom, the last week in the year: II am
the Past--weepr' But there seems a soul
poisoning into a smile on the flushed lips 81
the dreaming child. dreaming in sleep. and
L e
Il am the Future-smile! TLen the image
of the old man and the dreamii z child van
ishes, and there is lonely heart beating in
the solitude. and it whispers, "Regrst not. the
old wear takes the nortals memory, but the
new gives the Union hope"
All that ihhabit this old earth are that Pil
grim Humanity is the homeless one ever on
the threshold, but never passing over it.
We all see the last day in each year az time
rolls round. We see The image of the old man
with the child ncstlde in the snow of his dead
bosom. asleep. We all read the traceries Of
the wrinkled face. Il am the Past--weep!"
and translate the dreamer's soul. Il the
Future-smile." And so on the great high
way Of the world we pass the old life of the
dead Time, and begin The new life Of the liv-
ing Time--always the Present lighted with
the Future
Are there tolling bells-are there funeral
traius-are there Open graves, when We come
t. the end of the year? The year closing is
the type of a great death. The air ia full Of
glittering bayonets and tolllng bells. The
darkness is thronged with funeral trains OF
the vanished armies.
Death bear, tn, angel Life in his arms
asleet-the Memory OF the old year aud the
Hone Of tine new; and Memory and Hoe IRE
the figures that make the pilgrim lnger al tn"
end Of the wear He pauses, and ling RS, and
lstens-he looks before and after and pines
Tor peace;-he asks stern questions but she
angels will not answ or. ana the grave only
echoes them Behind him is the way he has
come: before him is the way his footsteps were
going. He ben down and kisses the dream
ing child. and whispers into his ear. aud the
child seems waking from its sleeping dream
and smiling. And this is ALL but this is the
assurance: II am the Futurc-smlc."
Then the restless world goes on. tolling. re-
ioicinC. sorrowing. And sometimes looking
back. we Sc periods in our life transit cured !
in some holy light
The light that never Was on sea shore
The conservation and the poets dream.
And the dreaming image has halo about its
brow. and is divine form of i'm mortal youth
and glory There are golden periods in our
lives md al OR dusty paths lead backward
to them; and from them the distances are
marked upon our browS and he2rs :; they are
crowned with the transfigured Past.
But wheu we have passed the end of the
year, with its image of old are and WEAKNESS
and decay. the dreaming child tina, we LETT
sleeping and smiling in the snow of the old
man s bosom. steels from his arms and leaps
before us. and pr esentlv we see far off where
the sun touches some height whence the breath
of morning brings Us the souls of divine flow
ers The true golden object OF our lives and
the dreaming child cleaning with glory and
crowned with a sunwreath, and lifted with
wings, smiles from the future Time that makes
the better years.
All, the better years! We pass the end of
the year of the mortal sbb and flow of time
We let the dead past bury its dead. We put
our own dead. beautiful and loved. in ihe
grave, and still we move on and trust tire
smile. and forget the tears.