The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1894-12-29
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
BY REV. ]. F. THOMPSON.

From the cradle to the grave there
is an unceasing change in those out
ward and inner experiences which to-
gether constitute human life. How
ever conservative our disposition may
be, every attempt to keep things just
as they are is like trying to hold the
shadow which some moving object
casts upon the wall, or bidding the
light we love best to liuger upon the
landscape, or fastening upon the dis
tant mountain that special cloud pat
tern which suits our fancy.
To begin with, we cannot SO much
as keep any permanent self. When
we were children we were anxious to
grow up; and now that we are mature
men or women we realize or fancy
that childhood was the very happiest
period of our lives. And yet, could
we resurrect the outward past, could
we renew all the old time associations
that would not renew the youthful
feeling which was the soul of it all,
and which now lives only in memory.
If we tried now to do the things which
pleased us then-to play hide and
seek, or join hands in circle and
walk around in one of those singing
games which have no proper begin
ming or ending,--we should not enjoy
it. When we meet the people of
whom as boys and girls we were very
fond we can think of nothing to say.
1t is because the part of us that re-
members and loves these things of
the past exists separately from the
man or woman who thinks and acts
and suffers and enjoys in the present.
Let us say that few years ago you
parted with a brother, sister, or
some other friend whom you dearly
loved. So closely blended had your
lives become that the separation was
like the rending of bone, the tearing
of flesh, and the rupture of bleeding
arteries. At first every mail carried
a letter from one to the other. You
lived in the past and had no heart for
things of the present-whether duties
or pleasures. Yet, from the moment
when with many tears you vowed
eternal constancy, you began to
change. When such a wound has
been inflicted nature at once begins
to heal the hurt, or to kill the patient
Little by little the things which were
daily happening crowded the memo
ries of the past into smaller and
smaller corner of your interest. The
letters grew less frequent, and at
length they ceased. You could not
even remember who wrote the last.
Thus finally, the distance between
you and your friend was measured,
not by miles, but by the alienation of
feeling. Then, when years had pass
ed, news came one day that he would
return. That recalled the old associ-
ations and resurrected the dead feel
ing. You were impatient of the in
tervening days. At the station or
wharf you awaited the coming of the
train or boat. And yet, from the
moment that your eyes met, and your
hands touched, your mutual disap-
pointment began. That element in
each of your natures which remem-
bers and loves the things that were
FASTENED to greet a friend; but that
part of you which lives and acts in
the present, that new self which from
the fibres of unlike experiences the
intervening years had wroughtin each
of you, met stranger. Some new
friendship may grow from the renew
ed intimacy; but between it and the
past which lives only in memory, there
is a great gulf fixed. Therefore l
think that the saddest element in such
a parting is our instructive feeling
that it is for eternity: that the friend
who goes will not return; though he
may send another who bears his name.
But this is not only true of people
who separate. Our lives may grow
apart although we meet every day.
Friendships that endure are the ex-
ception. The people who last year
were inseparable companions, have
not quarreled; they still hold each
other in high esteem; but the stately
courtesy, the ceremonious greeting,
the polite invitation to call when con-
venient, no longer express the frauk
confidence, the perfect sympathy, the
sense of mutual dependence which
had no need of such empty formal
ties. To each the past is'still sacred
but neither can identify his former
friend with his present acquaintance.
To this rule there are exceptions.
Some few people there are who, while
not blind to our faults, perceive cei-
tain divine possibilities toward which