The age-herald., 1899-01-01
THE MURMUR
 OF THE WORLD

One other year is dead and another year Is born;- and the curling smoke from the briar-root pipe, floating outward and up- ward, forms for the one a softened crown like to life, and for the other a radiant nimbus. The bells are ringing, ringing, ringing! Peal on peal form dirge to the dead and anthem of the blessed to the new- born, ushered into our lives whilst the world sleeps, and takes not count of time. Ringing, ringing, ringing-peal on peal and peal again breaks the viewless winds and mounts to the foot of the Thronei All of our little space Is filled with the inhafmo- nious melody. The discordant notes be- come sweet harmony in the greeting to the Most High, and alike into the perfumed chambers of virtue and the homes of vice the pealing bells carry their message of universal love Virtue, half rising from its couch, blushes at it's own loveliness and re- joices, because 1t knows not of sin, whilst sin, in the deeper deeps of it's soul, kisses the crucifx and is less sinful. Holy virtue sinks back amongst it's cushions of joy, and sin hides its reddened face in the pillows of its own transgression. Virtue is not more virtuous, but sin is less sinful in the darkness The maiden lies down again to piedSdhl uISdInS, ana Sln recilneS nalf awake to long for the better life.
 Ringing, ringing, ringing! Never rang bells so exultantly-never yet did they so little mingle dirge with the wedding peals of the maiden called to be wife, The senses of virtue bend in prayerful saluta- ton. Rebellious sin bows in nameless re- gret not to be told. They may not clasp hands, these two, but their prayers reach the same ear in the infinite. The rich and the poor, the sinful and the wicked, the happy and the unhappy, they all of them are lifted up by the ringing of the bells around the cradle of the newborn year, come into time to bring joy or sorrow to every creature of God
 The ringing of the proudest notes from cathedral tower sounds no grander or nob.er to the Master than the tones of the poor little child of rags and want moaning it's simple prison from the cradle of hunger in the garret of poverty. The petition from the palace and the prayer from the hut of the iowly fall at the foot of that throne whereon sits eternal majesty
 From mem'ry's ghostly shore forth floats a
 melody
 AS sweetly faint as dying whisper of the
 winds
 On summers eve through pines: AS faintly sweet as breath of new
 blossomed roses;
 And 10! my soul awakes
 Half startling from it's couch and sees The vision of it's Perfect Love! But then
 The melody subsidies,
 The vision fades,
 My soul sinks back to sleep
 The voiceful bells have become voiceless Whilst their proud notes sounded an an- them in the cathedral of the soul and my pipe burned incense as from a low-swinging censer, the world passed from me and I was journeying in a land that is not given to me to describe. My soul comes back to my desk, and the white paper that must be sullied by any marks traced by the graphite pencil. In a moment I am con- sclous that another is with me, looking on not unhappily. It is the Aretnusa.
 You needed me, and I am come,' she said directly. Refill your pipe. You should not smoke it so burned"
 ''Wel7'
 That dead thing just back there on times wide space, which men call the old year-you are glad 1t is dead, and therefore you mourn it not"
 "Yes-why shouldn't we be glad?'
 That is for you first to answer" said Arethusa. "Yet I would remind you that the old year has been good to you. Listen, l am with you alway, except when you drive me from you. I am your Better Self; I, the patient Arethusa. Do you remember how unhappy the old year found us far away-how he found low down in the damned valley of pain listening to the roll of the black waters and almost hoping to hear the keel of the last ferryboat upon the strand of this life? Do you know how dark and long the night was, and how you be- lieved day would never break again for us? How you gave up faith and cursed hope as common deceiver? How pain mastered all your passions and emotions save that of bitterness? How, at last, much to your amazement, day did come, and you sought in your blind way once more to touch the hem of hopes glorious garment? And how it all came out for the best, and pain left you to face the world in the old spirit?"
 There rustling as of wings, a soft perfume filled the workroom, and the Are- thusa was gone.
 The old year was good, after all Most years bring to most of us more joy than SoiiOW. IHeIS DS udTk QdyS when the clouds lower and shut off the peaks where- on the sunshine falls in Niagara of light. But such days are few in the run of the years, if we but see things as they are and not as we fancy them to be. Imagina- tion is either an angel or devil. It will lead us to the heights, or drag us down to the deeps, as will. The matter is with ourselves. Imagination is the handmaid of happiness, or it is the hag of hell. It depends upon our mood, our real purpose to rejoice or to be mournful. Whether we listen to the laughter of little children or the moans of the wretched rests with our- selves.
 Last year brought us many things better than we merited; many, we believed at the moment. too hard to hear. But we accepted the good and bore in some way the burden of the evil. This year shall bring us less of the one first named and more of the latter. Arethusa told me so in the incense of the tobacco pipe before she went her way after