That is just the way with Memory; nothing that she brings to us iscomplete. She is a willful child; all her toys are broken. Iremember tumbling into a huge dust-hole when a very small boy, but Ihave not the faintest recollection of ever getting out again; and ifmemory were all we had to trust to, I should be compelled to believe Iwas there still.
At another time--some years later--I was assisting at an exceedinglyinteresting love scene; but the only thing about it I can call to minddistinctly is that at the most critical moment somebody suddenlyopened the door and said, "Emily, you're wanted," in a sepulchral6 tonethat gave one the idea the police had come for her. All the tenderwords she said to me and all the beautiful things I said to her areutterly forgotten.
Life altogether is but a crumbling7 ruin when we turn to look behind:
a shattered column here, where a massive portal stood; the brokenshaft of a window to mark my lady's bower8; and a moldering heap ofblackened stones where the glowing flames once leaped, and over allthe tinted9 lichen10 and the ivy11 clinging green.
For everything looms12 pleasant through the softening13 haze14 of time.
Even the sadness that is past seems sweet. Our boyish days look verymerry to us now, all nutting, hoop15, and gingerbread. The snubbingsand toothaches and the Latin verbs are all forgotten--the Latin verbsespecially. And we fancy we were very happy when we were hobbledehoysand loved; and we wish that we could love again. We never think ofthe heartaches, or the sleepless16 nights, or the hot dryness of ourthroats, when she said she could never be anything to us but asister--as if any man wanted more sisters!
Yes, it is the brightness, not the darkness, that we see when we lookback. The sunshine casts no shadows on the past. The road that wehave traversed stretches very fair behind us. We see not the sharpstones. We dwell but on the roses by the wayside, and the strongbriers that stung us are, to our distant eyes, but gentle tendrilswaving in the wind. God be thanked that it is so--that theever-lengthening chain of memory has only pleasant links, and that thebitterness and sorrow of to-day are smiled at on the morrow.
It seems as though the brightest side of everything were also itshighest and best, so that as our little lives sink back behind us intothe dark sea of forgetfulness, all that which is the lightest and themost gladsome is the last to sink, and stands above the waters, longin sight, when the angry thoughts and smarting pain are buried deepbelow the waves and trouble us no more.
It is this glamour17 of the past, I suppose, that makes old folk talk somuch nonsense about the days when they were young. The world appearsto have been a very superior sort of place then, and things were morelike what they ought to be. Boys were boys then, and girls were verydifferent. Also winters were something like winters, and summers notat all the wretched-things we get put off with nowadays. As for thewonderful deeds people did in those times and the extraordinary eventsthat happened, it takes three strong men to believe half of them.
I like to hear one of the old boys telling all about it to a party ofyoungsters who he knows cannot contradict him. It is odd if, afterawhile, he doesn't swear that the moon shone every night when he was aboy, and that tossing mad bulls in a blanket was the favorite sport athis school.
It always has been and always will be the same. The old folk of ourgrandfathers' young days sang a song bearing exactly the same burden;and the young folk of to-day will drone out precisely18 similar nonsensefor the aggravation19 of the next generation. "Oh, give me back thegood old days of fifty years ago," has been the cry ever since Adam'sfifty-first birthday. Take up the literature of 1835, and you willfind the poets and novelists asking for the same impossible gift asdid the German Minnesingers long before them and the old Norse Sagawriters long before that. And for the same thing sighed the earlyprophets and the philosophers of ancient Greece. From all accounts,the world has been getting worse and worse ever since it was created.
All I can say is that it must have been a remarkably20 delightful21 placewhen it was first opened to the public, for it is very pleasant evennow if you only keep as much as possible in the sunshine and take therain good-temperedly.
Yet there is no gainsaying22 but that it must have been somewhat sweeterin that dewy morning of creation, when it was young and fresh, whenthe feet of the tramping millions had not trodden its grass to dust,nor the din5 of the myriad23 cities chased the silence forever away.
Life must have been noble and solemn to those free-footed, loose-robedfathers of the human race, walking hand in hand with God under thegreat sky. They lived in sunkissed tents amid the lowing herds24. Theytook their simple wants from the loving hand of Nature. They toiledand talked and thought; and the great earth rolled around instillness, not yet laden25 with trouble and wrong.
Those days are past now. The quiet childhood of Humanity, spent inthe far-off forest glades26 and by the murmuring rivers, is goneforever; and human life is deepening down to manhood amid tumult,doubt, and hope. Its age of restful peace is past. It has its workto finish and must hasten on. What that work may be--what thisworld's share is in the great design--we know not, though ourunconscious hands are helping27 to accomplish it. Like the tiny coralinsect working deep under the dark waters, we strive and struggle eachfor our own little ends, nor dream of the vast fabric28 we are buildingup for God.
Let us have done with vain regrets and longings29 for the days thatnever will be ours again. Our work lies in front, not behind us; and"Forward!" is our motto. Let us not sit with folded hands, gazingupon the past as if it were the building; it is but the foundation.
Let us not waste heart and life thinking of what might have been andforgetting the may be that lies before us. Opportunities flit bywhile we sit regretting the chances we have lost, and the happinessthat comes to us we heed30 not, because of the happiness that is gone.
Years ago, when I used to wander of an evening from the fireside tothe pleasant land of fairy-tales, I met a doughty31 knight32 and true.
Many dangers had he overcome, in many lands had been; and all men knewhim for a brave and well-tried knight, and one that knew not fear;except, maybe, upon such seasons when even a brave man might feelafraid and yet not be ashamed. Now, as this knight one day waspricking wearily along a toilsome road, his heart misgave34 him and wassore within him because of the trouble of the way. Rocks, dark and ofa monstrous35 size, hung high above his head, and like enough it seemedunto the knight that they should fall and he lie low beneath them.
Chasms36 there were on either side, and darksome caves wherein fiercerobbers lived, and dragons, very terrible, whose jaws37 dripped blood.
And upon the road there hung a darkness as of night. So it came overthat good knight that he would no more press forward, but seek anotherroad, less grievously beset38 with difficulty unto his gentle steed.
But when in haste he turned and looked behind, much marveled our braveknight, for lo! of all the way that he had ridden there was naught39 foreye to see; but at his horse's heels there yawned a mighty40 gulf41,whereof no man might ever spy the bottom, so deep was that same gulf.
Then when Sir Ghelent saw that of going back there was none, he prayedto good Saint Cuthbert, and setting spurs into his steed rode forwardbravely and most joyously42. And naught harmed him.
There is no returning on the road of life. The frail43 bridge of timeon which we tread sinks back into eternity44 at every step we take. Thepast is gone from us forever. It is gathered in and garnered45. Itbelongs to us no more. No single word can ever be unspoken; no singlestep retraced46. Therefore it beseems us as true knights47 to prick33 onbravely, not idly weep because we cannot now recall.
A new life begins for us with every second. Let us go forwardjoyously to meet it. We must press on whether we will or no, and weshall walk better with our eyes before us than with them ever castbehind.
A friend came to me the other day and urged me very eloquently48 tolearn some wonderful system by which you never forgot anything. Idon't know why he was so eager on the subject, unless it be that Ioccasionally borrow an umbrella and have a knack49 of coming out, in themiddle of a game of whist, with a mild "Lor! I've been thinking allalong that clubs were trumps50." I declined the suggestion, however, inspite of the advantages he so attractively set forth51. I have no wishto remember everything. There are many things in most men's livesthat had better be forgotten. There is that time, many years ago,when we did not act quite as honorably, quite as uprightly, as weperhaps should have done--that unfortunate deviation52 from the path ofstrict probity53 we once committed, and in which, more unfortunatestill, we were found out--that act of folly54, of meanness, of wrong.
Ah, well! we paid the penalty, suffered the maddening hours of vainremorse, the hot agony of shame, the scorn, perhaps, of those weloved. Let us forget. Oh, Father Time, lift with your kindly55 handsthose bitter memories from off our overburdened hearts, for griefs areever coming to us with the coming hours, and our little strength isonly as the day.
Not that the past should be buried. The music of life would be muteif the chords of memory were snapped asunder56. It is but the poisonousweeds, not the flowers, that we should root out from the garden ofMnemosyne. Do you remember Dickens' "Haunted Man"--how he prayed forforgetfulness, and how, when his prayer was answered, he prayed formemory once more? We do not want all the ghosts laid. It is only thehaggard, cruel-eyed specters that we flee from. Let the gentle,kindly phantoms57 haunt us as they will; we are not afraid of them.
Ah me! the world grows very full of ghosts as we grow older. We neednot seek in dismal58 church-yards nor sleep in moated granges to see theshadowy faces and hear the rustling59 of their garments in the night.
Every house, every room, every creaking chair has its own particularghost. They haunt the empty chambers60 of our lives, they throng61 aroundus like dead leaves whirled in the autumn wind. Some are living, someare dead. We know not. We clasped their hands once, loved them,quarreled with them, laughed with them, told them our thoughts andhopes and aims, as they told us theirs, till it seemed our very heartshad joined in a grip that would defy the puny62 power of Death. Theyare gone now; lost to us forever. Their eyes will never look intoours again and their voices we shall never hear. Only their ghostscome to us and talk with us. We see them, dim and shadowy, throughour tears. We stretch our yearning63 hands to them, but they are air.
Ghosts! They are with us night and day. They walk beside us in thebusy street under the glare of the sun. They sit by us in thetwilight at home. We see their little faces looking from the windowsof the old school-house. We meet them in the woods and lanes where weshouted and played as boys. Hark! cannot you hear their low laughterfrom behind the blackberry-bushes and their distant whoops65 along thegrassy glades? Down here, through the quiet fields and by the wood,where the evening shadows are lurking66, winds the path where we used towatch for her at sunset. Look, she is there now, in the dainty whitefrock we knew so well, with the big bonnet67 dangling68 from her littlehands and the sunny brown hair all tangled69. Five thousand miles away!
Dead for all we know! What of that? She is beside us now, and we canlook into her laughing eyes and hear her voice. She will vanish atthe stile by the wood and we shall be alone; and the shadows willcreep out across the fields and the night wind will sweep pastmoaning. Ghosts! they are always with us and always will be while thesad old world keeps echoing to the sob70 of long good-bys, while thecruel ships sail away across the great seas, and the cold green earthlies heavy on the hearts of those we loved.
But, oh, ghosts, the world would be sadder still without you. Come tous and speak to us, oh you ghosts of our old loves! Ghosts ofplaymates, and of sweethearts, and old friends, of all you laughingboys and girls, oh, come to us and be with us, for the world is verylonely, and new friends and faces are not like the old, and we cannotlove them, nay71, nor laugh with them as we have loved and laughed withyou. And when we walked together, oh, ghosts of our youth, the worldwas very gay and bright; but now it has grown old and we are growingweary, and only you can bring the brightness and the freshness back tous.
Memory is a rare ghost-raiser. Like a haunted house, its walls areever echoing to unseen feet. Through the broken casements72 we watchthe flitting shadows of the dead, and the saddest shadows of them allare the shadows of our own dead selves.
Oh, those young bright faces, so full of truth and honor, of pure,good thoughts, of noble longings, how reproachfully they look upon uswith their deep, clear eyes!
I fear they have good cause for their sorrow, poor lads. Lies andcunning and disbelief have crept into our hearts since thosepreshaving days--and we meant to be so great and good.
It is well we cannot see into the future. There are few boys offourteen who would not feel ashamed of themselves at forty.
I like to sit and have a talk sometimes with that odd little chap thatwas myself long ago. I think he likes it too, for he comes so oftenof an evening when I am alone with my pipe, listening to thewhispering of the flames. I see his solemn little face looking at methrough the scented73 smoke as it floats upward, and I smile at him; andhe smiles back at me, but his is such a grave, old-fashioned smile.
We chat about old times; and now and then he takes me by the hand, andthen we slip through the black bars of the grate and down the duskyglowing caves to the land that lies behind the firelight. There wefind the days that used to be, and we wander along them together. Hetells me as we walk all he thinks and feels. I laugh at him now andthen, but the next moment I wish I had not, for he looks so grave I amashamed of being frivolous. Besides, it is not showing proper respectto one so much older than myself--to one who was myself so very longbefore I became myself.
We don't talk much at first, but look at one another; I down at hiscurly hair and little blue bow, he up sideways at me as he trots74. Andsome-how I fancy the shy, round eyes do not altogether approve of me,and he heaves a little sigh, as though he were disappointed. Butafter awhile his bashfulness wears off and he begins to chat. Hetells me his favorite fairy-tales, he can do up to six times, and hehas a guinea-pig, and pa says fairy-tales ain't true; and isn't it apity? 'cos he would so like to be a knight and fight a dragon andmarry a beautiful princess. But he takes a more practical view oflife when he reaches seven, and would prefer to grow up be a bargee,and earn a lot of money. Maybe this is the consequence of falling inlove, which he does about this time with the young lady at the milkshop aet. six. (God bless her little ever-dancing feet, whatever sizethey may be now!) He must be very fond of her, for he gives her oneday his chiefest treasure, to wit, a huge pocket-knife with four rustyblades and a corkscrew, which latter has a knack of working itself outin some mysterious manner and sticking into its owner's leg. She isan affectionate little thing, and she throws her arms round his neckand kisses him for it, then and there, outside the shop. But thestupid world (in the person of the boy at the cigar emporium nextdoor) jeers75 at such tokens of love. Whereupon my young friend veryproperly prepares to punch the head of the boy at the cigar emporiumnext door; but fails in the attempt, the boy at the cigar emporiumnext door punching his instead.
And then comes school life, with its bitter little sorrows and itsjoyous shoutings, its jolly larks76, and its hot tears falling onbeastly Latin grammars and silly old copy-books. It is at school thathe injures himself for life--as I firmly believe--trying to pronounceGerman; and it is there, too, that he learns of the importanceattached by the French nation to pens, ink, and paper. "Have youpens, ink, and paper?" is the first question asked by one Frenchman ofanother on their meeting. The other fellow has not any of them, as arule, but says that the uncle of his brother has got them all three.
The first fellow doesn't appear to care a hang about the uncle of theother fellow's brother; what he wants to know now is, has the neighborof the other fellow's mother got 'em? "The neighbor of my mother hasno pens, no ink, and no paper," replies the other man, beginning toget wild. "Has the child of thy female gardener some pens, some ink,or some paper?" He has him there. After worrying enough about thesewretched inks, pens, and paper to make everybody miserable77, it turnsout that the child of his own female gardener hasn't any. Such adiscovery would shut up any one but a French exercise man. It has noeffect at all, though, on this shameless creature. He never thinks ofapologizing, but says his aunt has some mustard.
So in the acquisition of more or less useless knowledge, soon happilyto be forgotten, boyhood passes away. The red-brick school-housefades from view, and we turn down into the world's high-road. Mylittle friend is no longer little now. The short jacket has sproutedtails. The battered78 cap, so useful as a combination ofpocket-handkerchief, drinking-cup, and weapon of attack, has grownhigh and glossy79; and instead of a slate-pencil in his mouth there is acigarette, the smoke of which troubles him, for it will get up hisnose. He tries a cigar a little later on as being more stylish--a bigblack Havanna. It doesn't seem altogether to agree with him, for Ifind him sitting over a bucket in the back kitchen afterward80, solemnlyswearing never to smoke again.
And now his mustache begins to be almost visible to the naked eye,whereupon he immediately takes to brandy-and-sodas and fancies himselfa man. He talks about "two to one against the favorite," refers toactresses as "Little Emmy" and "Kate" and "Baby," and murmurs81 abouthis "losses at cards the other night" in a style implying thatthousands have been squandered4, though, to do him justice, the actualamount is most probably one-and-twopence. Also, if I see aright--forit is always twilight64 in this land of memories--he sticks an eyeglassin his eye and stumbles over everything.
His female relations, much troubled at these things, pray for him(bless their gentle hearts!) and see visions of Old Bailey trials andhalters as the only possible outcome of such reckless dissipation; andthe prediction of his first school-master, that he would come to a badend, assumes the proportions of inspired prophecy.
He has a lordly contempt at this age for the other sex, a blatantlygood opinion of himself, and a sociably82 patronizing manner toward allthe elderly male friends of the family. Altogether, it must beconfessed, he is somewhat of a nuisance about this time.
It does not last long, though. He falls in love in a little while,and that soon takes the bounce out of him. I notice his boots aremuch too small for him now, and his hair is fearfully and wonderfullyarranged. He reads poetry more than he used, and he keeps a rhymingdictionary in his bedroom. Every morning Emily Jane finds scraps83 oftorn-up paper on the floor and reads thereon of "cruel hearts andlove's deep darts," of "beauteous eyes and lovers' sighs," and muchmore of the old, old song that lads so love to sing and lassies loveto listen to while giving their dainty heads a toss and pretendingnever to hear.
The course of love, however, seems not to have run smoothly84, for lateron he takes more walking exercise and less sleep, poor boy, than isgood for him; and his face is suggestive of anything but wedding-bellsand happiness ever after.
And here he seems to vanish. The little, boyish self that has grownup beside me as we walked is gone.
I am alone and the road is very dark. I stumble on, I know not hownor care, for the way seems leading nowhere, and there is no light toguide.
But at last the morning comes, and I find that I have grown intomyself.
The End
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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lichen
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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glamour
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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aggravation
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remarkably
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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gainsaying
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myriad
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herds
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laden
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glades
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helping
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fabric
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longings
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heed
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doughty
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knight
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prick
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misgave
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monstrous
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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jaws
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beset
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naught
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mighty
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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joyously
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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54
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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55
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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58
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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61
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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65
whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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69
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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73
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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74
trots
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| 小跑，急走( trot的名词复数 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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77
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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80
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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81
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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82
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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83
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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