Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1862-08-27

More highly prize. "-CoplaS de Aanrique
70 MI Of us, even 10 those whose path
through life has been comparatively free
from thorns, and whose progress has not
boen obstructed by many serious obsta-
cles, a retrospect of the past must be
tinged with melancholy. The very
words "'1he Past have something som
hre and mournfu about tbem. " The
Past in that vast gulf, what tender,
unfulfied hopes, what eager longngs,
what passionate regrets, are there, that
its resistlcss, onward-rolling pillows have
not cngulphed for ever.
" Passoto "a passato per sempre."
The past is past, and for ever.
So SAYS the Italian proyerl, and wisely,
100, does it speak, 1.-THE past as past"
No use for us to strive to recall it; it " is
past, and for ever Longfellow has the
same idea in his Hyperion: /" Look not, y
lie says, " monrnfully into the past, it
comes not back again" And even as he
bids us not TO sorrow, he strikes the key
note of that sorrow: it comes not back
again and straightway, through the
dim, raulted cloisters of memory, wall
ing like the wind among the strings Of
the wizard harp, comes fitfully through
the brain TIE Miserere, the death wall, of
that which has slipped forever from our
grasp; low and plaintivo at first, indis-
tinct and tremulous, but gathering
strength and force rs the events Of the
past come before us in rapid succession,
now faint and mournful. again rising to
an almost joyous strain, ever changing,
ever shifting, but still through The whole
anthem runs that plaintiye accompani-
mcnt, it com es not back again"
And SO, as we think on the past, and
the friends who have passed away with
it, we begin insensibly to think Of tue
future, and the time that is fast approach
ing when we, too, shall be among the
past and gone" Hence, am inclined
10 think, arises n good deal of the mel
ancholy with which retrospection is
tinged. No doubt there is certain
amonnt Of yearning after pleasures which
baye long since palled in their very en-
ioyment, some Of which NAV, like the
apples growing on the shores Of the
Dead Sea, have turned to ashes in our
mouths, regret, too, for opportunities
neglected has likewise its share, but,
above all, the memory of our early
friends, from whom time has separated
us one way and another, conduce to
this melancholy sentiment, which has
moro or less influenced all poetry that
has ever been written. And | think, too,
if we each of us come to analyze our
feelings in this matter. we shall find
them more or less tinged with the same
sadness, and for these same reasous,---
"On every side men see their friends fall off,
Like leaves in autumn"
So is the way o. the world. Death, alb
senco, misunderstanding, break the ties,
and, rs we draw nearer TO our graves,
smaller and thinner grows the circle Of
our friends
Look back and think of the friends Of
our school aud college days, when, in the
hopeful and trusting sunshine of LIES
carly morning, we formed Friendships
that were to last through life. Where
nre they, those Goyish friends: Now
and then We come across q name in the
columns OF some newspaper where, in n
single line, IS recorded the death of one
of these, and through the great hum and
roar of the busy world comes an echo
that vibratcs n chord ia our hearts that
has LONG been silent aud unawakened.
Memory opens once again her magic
page, and through the dim shadows OF
the past comes a picture of the old school
house under the hill, and rs the different
faces and forms come hurrying on the
scone, there is one particularly that you
single out amongst the rest, whose name
you have just read in the paper in your
hand. Years have passed away since
Won and lie, arm linked in arm, ex-
changed condolences in the old play
ground; tho waves of life have borne
ron far apart, may be, from one another
Of his life after leaving school you know
little or nothing,-but still memory pic
lures him 10 you as YOU first knew him
in the long past-away hours of boybood.
l think there is hardly passage in
Shakespeare more natural or, at the same
time. more deeply pathetic than IIamlet's
soliloquy on Yorick's scull. Observe the