Alexandria Gazette

THE NEW YEAR.
The record is almost complete; the page is nearly written over, soiled and blotted here and there with tears, and 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 paler and to wear a more solemn, sombre glow, as they mark the swift revolutions of Time, and gaze down in silence upon the shortening span which speaks of death—the 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 sheaves, and they are gathered and garnered safely from the storms. The scythe never grows dull, and the reaper's arm is always strong, therefore, the harvest lasts from day to day and from year to year. But now the year, which bears upon its brow the remorseless stamp and birthright 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 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 Past. 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 can spread over the dead a robe of spotless white—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, mysterious 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 of joy or sorrow, and will bend closer and flit nearer as the worn pen trembles in the nerveless grasp, and then falls like the broken reed, when the minstrel's voice is mute—falls upon a finished page, and yet without a 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, a 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 bounding step or rude wind brushes the pearly dew drops from off the grass and flowers, for now another vision rises before us, and another Recording Angel, without a 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 written purity, the eyes beam with hope, a tender rosebud is the only jewel worn upon the breast, and in the hand is grasped a tiny sheaf of weeds and golden grain, and withered 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 a record for births, and here is one for deaths. The columns stand side by side, one crowned with a wreath of thorns and flowers and the other surmounted by a broken arch tipped 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 knell? The unseen spirits of the air do not linger near to whisper an answer, but as the vision extends, there is a strange blending of shadow and sunshine, 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 dawns 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 secret beyond the grave, the mystery deepens as we reason more and more, and, panting with the bewildering struggle, we lay the head upon the bosom of Faith, and folded in her arms, sink into a passive sleep of blind devotion. Why then seek to read in vision the great truths which Time and the Recording Angel will unfold to us day after day? Let the moments pass, for in their silent flight they will solve the great problem of Destiny over which mind 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 shortens the pulse, and we know not what chime may prove our knell. Nor should we ask to know, for life has no charm so great as that of the mystery in which it is surrounded.

Hail! a glad hail to the New Year, even if the sands of life are running low, for on the natal morn, Hope wears her brightest smile! We remember the errors of the past, only that we may profit by them, drop a tear upon the graves of the departed, because we would keep them green in the halls of memory, and driving the shadows back from the heart, we pledge our faith anew to those who have proved constant and true, and resolve to live so as to catch the sunshine in the great hereafter. —The Field and the Farm.