Year: 1866

TIE NEW YEAR


The record is almost complete; the page is
nearly written over, soiled and blotted here and
there with tears, ard when few more lines are
added, We will fold the parchment and place
upon it the great seal Of the Past The end of
the Old Year draws nigh, and the rosy tints
which herald the coming Of the New already
begin to appear. The stars hold their faithful
vigil in the sky, and they seem to wax paler
and to wear more solemn som5re glow, as
they mark the swift revolutions Of Tine, and
gaze down in silence upon the shortening span
which speaks Of death-thc life span of the
once New but now dying year A strong arm
swings the scythe, and as the forms fall, like
the grass, the thistles and the flowers of the
meadow, the hands Of the reaper bind them
into sheayes, and they are gathered and gar
nercd safely from the storms. The scythe
never grows dull, aud the reapcr's arm is al
ways strong therefore, the harvest lasts from
day to day and from year to year. But now the
year, which bears upon its brow the remorse.
less stamp and birthright of Time, is passing
away beneath each sturdy stroke, and ere long
the life current will cease to flow, and the mid
night chimes will become a parting knell. The
year that has been fruitful with the harvest of
life and death, at last must yield to the harvest
itself and be garnered in the Post. We can
gather no flowers to strew upon its bier and to
make fragrant the path to the tomb, but we
can bid the skies to weep, and cali spread over
the dead robe of spotiess whlte-a mantle of
snow We need no magic wand to summon
the unseen spirits Of the wingless air, for they
will come unbidden to hover in solemn, myste-
r!ous awe over the couch Of the dying year.
They will come to see the Recording Angel
write the last line upon the page, be it a line
@! Joy or sorrow, and will bend closer and fit
nearer as the worn pen trembles in the nerve
less grasp, and then falls like the broken reed.
when the minstreps voice is mute-falls upon
finished page, and yet withouta blot, because
the fluid is dry-fals, because it's mission is
ended and the scroll is complete. But while
We listen to the sad tolng of the bells and gaze
upon the ghostly spectres of a shadowy funeral
train, q mist, which dcepens into veil OF dark
ness, comes between mortal vision and the hal
lowed memories and resurrectcd spirits of the
Past, and the white sepulchre is shrouded from
view. We brush the tears away that are
trembling upon the eye lashes, as the bound
ing step or rude wind brushes the pear]y dew
drops from off the grass and flowers, for now
another vision rises before US, and another Re-
cording Angel, without Il line of care upon the
brow, is seated at the ponderous desk. The
bells are ringing joyously, the chamber door is
open, and across the threshold timidly trips
the young New Year. Upon its brow is writ
ten purity, the eyes beam with hope, tender
rosebud is the only jewel worn upon the breast,
and 10 the hand is grasped a tiny sheaf OF
weeds and golden grain, and wthered flowers.
It comes with timid step, while the dirge Of the
Old Year is drowned in the noisy peans of the
New. A new volume is open, and the angel
holds the pen ready to begin the weary task OF
writing line after line and page after page
Here IS q record for births, and here is one for
deaths. The columns stand side by side, one
crowned with wreath of thorns and flowers,
and the other surmountcd by broken arch
timed With sunshine and made gloomy by dark
shadows. A new harvest has opened, and as
the sturdy arm swings the scythe, the angel
hand guides the pen over the unsullied page.
Alas for whom do the bells gaily ring, and for
whom is sounded the funeral knel? The un-
seen snirits of the air do not |inger near to
whisper an answer, but as the vision extends
there is strange blending Of shadow and sun
shine strange blending OF sounds, joyous and
sad. The dim spectres Of the Past point to
graves in the Future and as the fatal mystery
dawns mon the mind, we trembe to cross the
threshold with the young New Year. We
know not whether the flowers bloom or wlther
for rs, and we hesitate to solve the problem
The soul paints the great Land OF hest IN
brightest coors, yet we demur when called to
cross the dark river, for the Future is made
clear and bright by Faith and not by Reason
When mind attempts to solve the awful secret
beyond the grave, the mystery deepers as we
reason more and more, and, painting with the
bewildering struggle, We lay the head upon the
bosom of Faith, and folded in her arms, sink
into passive sleep Of blind devotion. Why
then seek to read in vision the great truths
which Time and the Recording Angel will un-
fold to us day after day? Let the moments
pass, for in their silent flight they will solve the
great problem of Destiny over which mlnd'
immortal mind has no control. Each dying
year brings us nearer to the grave and nearer
to the great object for which we live. Each
tick of the clock shortcns the pulse, and we
know not what chime may prove our knel-
Nor should we ask to know, for life hasno charm