Year: 1867

The record is almost complete the page is
nearly written over, soiled and blottcd here
and there with tears aud when a 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 palcr and to wear more solemn, SOM
bre glow, as they mark the swift revolutions
of Time, and gaze down in silence upon the
shortening span which speaks of deuth-the
life span of the once New but now dying year.
y 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 reap
er bind them into sheaVes, and they arc gath
cred and garnered safely from. the storms
The scythe never grows dull, aud the reap
cr's arm is always strong, therefore, the har-
vest lasts from day to day and from year to
year, But now the year, which bears upon
its brow the rcmorsccss stamp and brthright
of Time, Is passing away beneath each sturdy
stroke, and ere long the life current will
cease to flow, and the midnight chimes will
become parting knell The year that has
been fruitful with the harvest of life and
and be garncred in the Past. We can gath
er 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 can spread over
the dead robe OF spOtleSs whte-a mantle
OF snow. We need no magic wand to sum-
mon the unseen spirits of the WiDgless air,
for they will come unbidden to hover in sol,
emn, mysterious awe over the couch Of the
dying year. They will come to see the Re-
cording Angel write the last line upon the
page, be it liue of joy or sorrow, and will
bend closer and fit nearer as the worn pen
trembles IN the nerveless grasp, and then falls
like the broken reed, when the minstrers
voice is mute-talls upon finished page, and
yet without blot because the fluid is dry
falls, because its mission is ended and the
scroll is complete. But while we listen to
the sad tolling of the bells and gaze upon the
ghOstly spectres of a shadowy funeral train,
mist, which deepens into a veil of darkness,
comes between mortal vision and the hallowed
memories and resurrected 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 pcarly dew
drops from off the grass and flowers, for now
another vision rises before US, and another
Recording Angel, without line of care upon
the brow, is seated at the pondcrous desk
The bells are ringing joyously, the chamber
uOOl 10 OpSn3 anu dClUSS tue IuiSSuOlu llulluIy
trips the young New Year Upon its brow
is written purity, the eyes beam with hope,
a tender rosebud is the only jewel worn upon
the breast, and in the hand is grasped tiny
sheaf of weeds and golden grain and with
cred flowers. 1t comes with timid stsp while
the dirge of the Old Year is drowned in the
noisy peans of the New. y 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 a 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
surmounted by a broken arch tipped with
sunshine and made gloomy by dark shadows.
n 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 gaiIy ring and for whom
is sounded the funeral knell? The unseen
spirits of the air do not linger near to whis-
per an answer, but as the vision extends, there
is a strange blending of sounds, joyous and
sad. The dim spectres of the Past point to
graves in the Future, and as the fatal mystery
downs upon the mind, we tremble to cross
the threshold with the young New Year
We know not whether the flowers bloom or
wither for US, and we hesitate to solve the
problem. The soul paints the great Land
of Rest in brightest colors, 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 secIet'b beyond the grave, the