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Article LAS MEMORIAS. ← Page 2 of 3 →
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Las Memorias.
roseate colouring over " the things which once were and never can be " to us here again . Indeed , nothing is so domineering , or autocratic as Memory , in that it takes us completely at times away from the present— -with its dull cares or petty trials , —and makes us denizens of another clime , where all was fresh and fair , fragrant and free , and when Hope , with its most halcyon tones ,
could breathe into us those glowing aspirations and anticipations which , alas , time and experience , and sorrow and separation , and treachery and change , have told us too surely and too sternly , are only , after all , "bottled moonshine , " for the most part , for us poor mortals now . For instance , I was looking over some dirty old papers the other day , preparatory for an " auto da fe , " innocent and befitting , unlike the Inquisition of
old , when I was attracted by a sealed envelope which had lain there many years , and which , when opened , contained the little crayon drawing of a fair face I once knew very well , the portraiture of one I cared for much and grieved for deeply , long , long years ago . And then , in a magic minute , memory came to the rescue , and took me out of my little den , with its old booksand musty furnitureand countless old
, , bachelor surroundings , to a distant epoch , now almost dim itself to me , and rejuvenated me , and hemmed me in on every side with the words , and songs , and smiles , and happiness , and gay ways , and cheery doings , the bright faces and loving hearts , of a very fair time and a very pleasant scene in my own humble career . What recked I then of to-day ? I was far , far away ! We were all young again .
And that very little drawing reminded me of one with whom some of my pleasantest days were passed , and yet such is the irony of fate , such the " perversity of things here , " she had faded out of my memory and life just as she herself had passed in gentleness away , in life ' s young morn . And yet now memory supervening , had filled ray room witli the tender ghosts of the past . They were all there , not one was missing- —old and young , grave and gayfair maidens
, , sportive youths . I could hear the quips and realize even the pranks of those old days , longforgotten now , but gracious even to recall to mind . How little pleased us then , gratified us then ; how merry , how contented , how truthful , how real , we all then were !
Alas ! how , too often , does the world change us all after a few short years , and what actors and hypocrites we do become . But then , how everything contented us , how satisfied we were with one another and with ourselves . In the immeasurable conceit of youth , we fancied that never any got on so well together before . And yet , here to-day , I am all but the solitary survivor of that once
gay , merry , and joyous gathering , and the old papers I destroy , and the old letters I read , and the old portrait I gaze on , are but the Memories , fading and evanescent , of a past which can never be recalled , of sympathies which time cannot renew , of frendship and affection which could only endure for a season , but , let us hope , may outlive even Time ' s " encroaching hand , " survive even " decay ' s effacing fingers . " But it is a mistake to suppose that when we o-efc old
we can reconstitute for ourselves the friendships of years . As Horace Walpole well put it , a hundred years ago , we can live with the young and like the young , but their ways are not ours , nor ours theirs . They cannot interest themselves in what interested us long years ao-o . Each a ° -e thinks " no small beer of itself , " and it will not allow us , who are inclined to dream that the past is superior to the presentto seek to make them believe
, that the faces were fairer , the hearts were warmer , the associations were more enduring , than those with which they are identified to-day . The same writer tells a pretty story in one of his letters to Georo-e Montagu or to General Conway— -I forget which—in illustration of what he contends for . He once gave a part y to three of the most beautiful ladies of his
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Las Memorias.
roseate colouring over " the things which once were and never can be " to us here again . Indeed , nothing is so domineering , or autocratic as Memory , in that it takes us completely at times away from the present— -with its dull cares or petty trials , —and makes us denizens of another clime , where all was fresh and fair , fragrant and free , and when Hope , with its most halcyon tones ,
could breathe into us those glowing aspirations and anticipations which , alas , time and experience , and sorrow and separation , and treachery and change , have told us too surely and too sternly , are only , after all , "bottled moonshine , " for the most part , for us poor mortals now . For instance , I was looking over some dirty old papers the other day , preparatory for an " auto da fe , " innocent and befitting , unlike the Inquisition of
old , when I was attracted by a sealed envelope which had lain there many years , and which , when opened , contained the little crayon drawing of a fair face I once knew very well , the portraiture of one I cared for much and grieved for deeply , long , long years ago . And then , in a magic minute , memory came to the rescue , and took me out of my little den , with its old booksand musty furnitureand countless old
, , bachelor surroundings , to a distant epoch , now almost dim itself to me , and rejuvenated me , and hemmed me in on every side with the words , and songs , and smiles , and happiness , and gay ways , and cheery doings , the bright faces and loving hearts , of a very fair time and a very pleasant scene in my own humble career . What recked I then of to-day ? I was far , far away ! We were all young again .
And that very little drawing reminded me of one with whom some of my pleasantest days were passed , and yet such is the irony of fate , such the " perversity of things here , " she had faded out of my memory and life just as she herself had passed in gentleness away , in life ' s young morn . And yet now memory supervening , had filled ray room witli the tender ghosts of the past . They were all there , not one was missing- —old and young , grave and gayfair maidens
, , sportive youths . I could hear the quips and realize even the pranks of those old days , longforgotten now , but gracious even to recall to mind . How little pleased us then , gratified us then ; how merry , how contented , how truthful , how real , we all then were !
Alas ! how , too often , does the world change us all after a few short years , and what actors and hypocrites we do become . But then , how everything contented us , how satisfied we were with one another and with ourselves . In the immeasurable conceit of youth , we fancied that never any got on so well together before . And yet , here to-day , I am all but the solitary survivor of that once
gay , merry , and joyous gathering , and the old papers I destroy , and the old letters I read , and the old portrait I gaze on , are but the Memories , fading and evanescent , of a past which can never be recalled , of sympathies which time cannot renew , of frendship and affection which could only endure for a season , but , let us hope , may outlive even Time ' s " encroaching hand , " survive even " decay ' s effacing fingers . " But it is a mistake to suppose that when we o-efc old
we can reconstitute for ourselves the friendships of years . As Horace Walpole well put it , a hundred years ago , we can live with the young and like the young , but their ways are not ours , nor ours theirs . They cannot interest themselves in what interested us long years ao-o . Each a ° -e thinks " no small beer of itself , " and it will not allow us , who are inclined to dream that the past is superior to the presentto seek to make them believe
, that the faces were fairer , the hearts were warmer , the associations were more enduring , than those with which they are identified to-day . The same writer tells a pretty story in one of his letters to Georo-e Montagu or to General Conway— -I forget which—in illustration of what he contends for . He once gave a part y to three of the most beautiful ladies of his