Half of our life is spent in vain regrets. When we are boys we ardently
wish to be men; when men we wish as ardently to be boys. We sing sad
songs of the lapse of time. We talk of "auld lang syne," of the days
when we were young, of gathering shells on the sea-shore and throwing
them carelessly away. We never cease to be sentimental upon past youth
and lost manhood and beauty. Yet there are no regrets so false, and few
half so silly. Perhaps the saddest sight in the world is to see an old
lady, wrinkled and withered, dressing, talking, and acting like a very
young one, and forgetting all the time, as she clings to the feeble
remnant of the past, that there is no sham so transparent as her own,
and that people, instead of feeling with her, are laughing at her. Old
boys disguise their foibles a little better; but they are equally
ridiculous. The feeble protests which they make against the flying
chariot of Time are equally futile. The great Mower enters the field,
and all must come down. To stay him would be impossible; We might as
well try with a finger to stop Ixion's wheel, or to dam up the current
of the Thames with a child's foot.
Since the matter is inevitable, we may as well sit down and reason it
out. Is it so dreadful to grow old? Does old age need its apologies and
its defenders? Is it a benefit or a calamity? Why should it be odious
and ridiculous? An old tree is picturesque, an old castle venerable, an
old cathedral inspires awe--why should man be worse than his works?
Let us, in the first place, see what youth is.
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