Alexandria Gazette

HUMAN LIFE
OF THE FIRST AND LAST MINUTE

The anxious husband paces slowly across his study. He is a father, a man who has been blessed by a parent, whom it cannot recognize, and pressed to that bosom, to which instinct alone guides for sustenance—the young child is born into him. Minutes pass—the wife too has faintly answered to a husband's questions, and felt his warm kiss on her forehead.

Hours pass.—The low moaning from the closely covered cradle, tells of the first wants of its infant occupant. The quiet tread of the nurse speaks of suffering around her; while her glad countenance, says that the very suffering which she is trying to alleviate is the source of joy, and the nameless articles, which from time to time she arranges on the hearth, tell of a new claimant for the courtesies and attentions of those, who have progressed further on the pathway of existence.

Days pass.—Visitors are thronging the chamber, and the mother, pale and interesting after her recent sickness, is receiving their congratulations, and listening proudly to their praises of the little treasure, which lies asleep in its rocking-bed at her feet. The scene shifts, and the father is there with her alone, as the twilight deepens about them, while they are planning the future destiny of their child.

Weeks pass.—The eyes of the young mother are sparkling with health, and the rose blooms again on her cheek, and the cares of pleasure and home engage her attention, and the father is once more mingling with the world; yet they find many opportunities each day to visit the young inheritor of life—to watch over his dreamless slumber—to trace each other's looks in his countenance; and to ponder upon the felicity, of which he is the bearer to them.

Months pass.—The cradle is deserted. But the chamber floor is strewed with play things, and there is a little one loitering among them, whose half lisped words, and hearty laugh, and sunny countenance tell you, that the entrance into life is over a pathway of flowers. The cradle is empty, but the last prayers of the parents are uttered over the small crib, which stands by their own bedside, and their latest attention is given to the peaceful breathings of its occupant.

Years pass. Childhood has strengthened into boyhood and gamboled along into manhood.—Old connexions are broken—parents are sleeping in their graves—new intimacies are formed—a new home is about him, new cares distract him. He is abroad, struggling amid the business of life, or resting from it with those whom he has chosen from his own generation. Time is beginning to wrinkle his forehead, and thought has robbed his looks of their gaiety, and study has dimmed his eyes. Those who began life, after he had grown up, are fast crowding him out of it, and there are many claimants upon his industry and love, for protection and support.

Years pass.—His own children have become men, and are quitting him, as he also quitted the home of his fathers. His steps have lost their elasticity—his hand has become familiar with the cane, to which he is obliged to trust in his walks. He has left the bustle which fatigued him. He looks anxiously in each day's paper among the deaths—and then ponders over the name of an old friend, and tries to persuade himself, that he is younger, and stronger, and has a better hold upon life than any of his contemporaries.

Months pass.—He gradually diminishes the circle of his activity. He dislikes to go abroad, where he finds so many new faces: and he grieves to meet his former companions, after a short absence—they seem to have grown so old and infirm. Quiet enjoyments only are relished,—a little conversation about old times—a sober game at whist—a religious treatise,—and his early bed, form for him the sum total of his pleasures.

Weeks pass.—Infirmity keeps him in his chamber. His walks are limited to the small space between his easy chair and his bed. His swollen limbs are wrapped in flannels. His sight is failing—his ears refuse their duty, and his cup is but half filled, since otherwise, his shaking hand cannot carry it to his shrunk lips without spilling its contents. His powers are weakened—his faculties are blunted—his strength is lost.

Days pass.—The old man does not leave his bed—his memory is failing—he talks but cannot be understood—he asks questions but they relate to the transactions of a former generation—he speaks of occurrences, but the recollection of no one around him can go back to their scenes—he seems to commune with comrades, but when he names them, it is found that the waters of time and oblivion have long covered their tombs.

Hours pass.—The taper grows dimmer and dimmer—the machinery moves yet more and more slowly—the sands are fewer as they measure the allotted span. The motion of those about him is unheeded, or becomes a vexation. Each fresh inquiry after his health is a knell. The springs of life can no longer force on its wheels—the silver cord is fast untwisting—the pitcher is broken at the fountain—and time "is a burthen."

His children are about him, but he heeds them not—his friends are near, but he does not recognize them. The circle is completed. The course is run—and utter weakness brings the damp, which ushers in the night of death.

Minutes pass—His breathing grows softer and lower—his pulse beats fainter and feebler.—Those around him are listening, but cannot tell when they cease. The embers are burnt out—and the blaze flashes not before it expires. His "three score years and ten" are numbered. Human life "is finished."—N. E. Gal.