The Yale expositor., 1913-12-25

and the question comes up with spontanety,
What of all this to me?"
In a country so new as ours where ones great
grandfather was about the earliest on record,
time does not impress us. 1t seems as If every
thing began yesterday. In old lands whose his
tory goes back centuries upon centuries the prog
ress of time seems very impressive.
But say what we will II is our own life that is
the most impressive, and as the years stretch out
behind us the memory of our youth makes
deeper impression on us this New Years day than
all the written history of the world than all the
traditions of all the races than all the records of
the rocks. The individual souls on days like this
naturally divide into two classes. On New Years
day youth looks to the future and age to the past
To the young all the paths before the feet look
rose-strewn and smooth. So be IL. Let the eye
brighten as it feasts in anticipation the good
things that must lie everywhere to the end. Youth
Youth! The time when there can be mo doubt of
any mystery that LIES longings and its
hopes could die" Let youth dream on OF roses
without thorns, of bright days without cloud,
of hopes that always find fulfllment, of ambitions
always fully satisfied. All we need do for youth is
leave it alone with its dreams, its hopes, its
billions. With these 1t will take of itself And
let not age whatever the years may have brought.
say a word, shake a head or give dubious look
to dispel the glory of the dream, the brightness
of the hope, the vaulting nature of the ambition.
Time will do enough of this. So let youth have its
undimmed JOY today.
But age looks back. The fires of ambition
dmmed They are all burnt-out ashes now. The
hopes that buoyed us up so safely in youth have
found what there is of fulllment all too little, OF
disappointment all too much We dream no longer
Of joys to come, but of grief that has strewed
the path along which we have come. The smell
of the woods in early spring when the first vioets
bloom, or in the heat of summer when all is like
the spice islands, or in fall when decay is in the
fallen leaves, in winter when death absorbs
long gone. We walk alone now, and all along the
far road lie mounds where we stood and confded
to the breast Of Mother Earth so many that walk
ed with us in the heydey of our life. The mother
whose soft touch banished pain the father whose
ripe experience taught us where to walk, the
brothers and sisters who were our playmates in
those days when the world was all sunshine.
Then when the wing Of love ceased 10 brood over
us in the paternal nest and went forth to
create a new family under the banner of love, how
a day like this calls up all the JOY and tenderness
of these days Of early manhood and womanhood
So we dream of the long-lost clasp of the hand Of
lover or friend SO we dwell in tender memory
all those days OF hope, of Joy, of expectancy
and fruition. We feel that all will soon be over.
This may be our last New Years day on this earth
where have passed so many eventful years.
When those who are left again ring out the old,
ring in the new" we may not be here to ring
either chime Of bells SO we sit and dream and
call up from the treasure-house Of memory the
faces, words and deeds OF those who walked with
us in the days of our youth and of our prime. But
we would not be gone yet. He is less than man
who thus sit and dream, think of his de-
parture, and not cast one longing lingering look
behind" We must go TO the poets to interpret
this life 20 us. Not TO the great ones OF the world
but to those whose verse deals with the common
things of life: TO Burns and his banks and braes
o bonnie Doom" his Highland Mary" TO the man
who wrote Home, Sweet Home" to the poet of
the poor slave in the south and his "Suwanee
River" We can go far back in the ages and all
the time the common heart of a common humanity
was the same now. King David would take
the aged Barzllai to the capital, to the court
But the plain man of the people would be left
alone TO dream the last dreams of life in peace.
Let me go back that may die in mine own city"
And after death "be buried by the side Of my ia
Their and of my mother" Oh! the tenderness OF
old age! There are no fierce passions left. Am
btton builds no more castles in the air Just to
be let dream of the days that gone, of the
early home and all it contained and then lie down
with the companions of youth and for centuries
and centuries, throughout the great eternity let
our ashes mingle with those we loved so we'll