THE KNICKERBOCKER. VOL. V. JANUARY, 1835. No. 1. THE NEW YEAR. GENTLE READER: We are standing together at that fairy vestibule, which opens, rich with hope and bright to expectation, upon another twelve-month,—a coming lapse of time, that, like a swell of the ocean, tossing with its fellows, heaves onward to the land of Death, and Silence. We gaze around, for a moment, from the point where we stand; and as the events of backward eras come thronging to our minds, the griefs or the raptures that have been commended to us in the annual span, as yet hardly closed, again move the soul and heart, to animate or to subdue. From the transports that are gone, there rises, like a strangely-pleasant odour from autumnal fields, the antepast of coming enjoyment; while from the sorrows that we have borne, there breathe the voices of Resignation, and the warnings of Experience. We bethink us of imaginings that time has dissolved, of visions unrealized: and as we gather contentment from surveying the mingled web that has been given us, we seem to ask but the power to bear, without undue depression or elateness, the lot that is to come. We desire not the eye of the seer, or the spell of the horoscope, to engraft in us the power of discerning our onward way: 'We stand between the meeting years, The coming and the past,- And if we look aright, we are not over-joyed at the jocund day which seems to sit in misty brightness upon the delectable scenes of that distance, whose enchantments are born of remoteness, and only dazzle when afar. Comparing our years in the mass, we find them all wearing the same shade and garniture, save that, as they increase they shorten: the tide of existence acquires additional momentum as it rolls; and the landmarks that we pass on the receding shores, admonish us, by the rapidity with which they disappear, that our days are few at the longest, and chequered at the best. The melody that melts from the sweet reed of Joy in the morning, while piped for the careless ear, is changed before noontide to the stern monitions of Reality; and as we prosecute our journey, we perceive how diminutive is the contrast between the life that is passed to us, and that which is yet unknown,—but which, sooner or later, in this world or another, must come to all. Thus, if approached with a feeling of true soberness, the theme leads the spirit upwards; it relaxes that vesture of decay which girds it in; and counsels a readiness for that period when Weakness shall be clothed upon with Strength; when the passions shall no longer sting or stain,-when Mortal puts on Immortality. These are reflections which few can dissemble, and none can disdain: they press themselves upon the mind; for who can avert his glance from the future? Who can 'excusably decline the consideration of that vast duration, which maketh pyramids pillars of snow, and all that's past, a monument?' But there is little in these reveries to render the world less charming, or to sully its loveliness with a pale and sickly cast of thought. From the Uncertainty which sways us, we borrow both gladness and gloom. She is the mother of Hope, and the parent of Despondency. What though we may not pierce the future for a solution of our hopes? Neither can we for our griefs. The fair sky may be palled by the ragged drapery of the cloud, or its darkness may be scattered by unexpected lustre. To look with certainty for either, would be a foolishness of expectation. In the variegated fabric of life, we shall sometimes see the working of the fatal sisters; at othersome, the gleaming of our better stars: we must be satisfied with both warp and woof,-though the interwoven colors be gay and beautiful, or sombrous and pale: thus we must take them, for thus we find them. There is something inspiring and delightful in the commencement of the year. The custom of our metropolis has made it a point of peculiar radiance; a halcyon period, when heart's-ease would seem to be the general feeling, and smiles, the social insignia. Then, the visit is exchanged between friends whom perhaps the departed year had somewhat alienated; old associations are revived, and cordialities that had well nigh been forgotten, are strengthened and renewed. As the lip is wetted with friendly wine, the bosom expands in the generous warmth of honest enjoyment: the cold formalities of factitious station give place to undisguised welcomes, and open-handed cheer. The rich and the poor meet together, and the spirit of pleasure is with all. As the parties go their rounds, and familiar forms and faces appear to greeting eyes, the necessity of friendship, and the desolation of its absence, come home to the mind it is felt that comfort is lost, when allied to selfishness, and that it is good to be respected, or beloved. And as those meet, between whom the year has passed in sullen estrangement,-upon whose anger many evening sun have descended, a relenting spirit obeys the mingled voices of Memory and Friendship; the kind resolve is made and followed; so that, instead of the thorn to goad and wound, there springs up in the pathway of the Reconciled, the olive or the myrtle. How sweet indeed is the sight of human goodness, struggling to surmount the petty passions which discolor its beauty, and bending to the benign suggestions of that pure, gentle principle-peace with men! Doubtless there are many severe strivings with natural pride, before these ends can be reached. Many a one may have imagined himself cut in Broadway, and inly determined never to accost the unkind expositor of that visual obliquity again; but the New Year awakens such throngs of conciliatory sentiments, that it is impossible to resist them. The call is made,-the oversight, or the neglect, explained, the breach is closed,-and Friend. ship is paramount! Months of reverses, and cares, and disappointments, are lost in that initial day, whose span is golden, from sun to sun,—a lapse to be remembered, with quiet satisfaction, in trials to come. In good sooth, a moment's reflection will assure any contemplative mind that resentment is the most pitiful passion that can agitate the human breast. True, there is such a thing as 'spirit;'—but how often is it ill-directed? How often magnified, by little causes, into an importance wholly incommensurate with the object desired. It is the province of New-year visits to crush these poisonous weeds of our path in the bud; to quench their noxious tendrils, and to substitute in their stead, the balm of friendship and good will. For such an object, the morning of the year is most auspicious. The grand festival of our Saviour's nativity has but lately ended; and a preservation of the era of good feeling is enjoined both by Precept and Hope. He who can resist such appeals to his kindness, to that kindness which increases the happiness of its possessor,-must be cold and callous indeed. Nothing is more certain, than the indispensableness of friendly communion, and kindred sympathies. Without them, life is a Golgotha, which seems alike destitute of the warmth of the present, and the anticipations of the future. Without them, we plod and delve, unthought of and unknown. We are in the depths of unhappiness, when we avoid intercourse with the world; not that cold intercourse of society, which is formed without emotion, and broken without regret; but that which is founded on esteem, and cemented by friendship; and which, looking with a spirit of pardon over trifles unexplained, suffers long and is kind.' There is another inducement to forbearance and forgiveness, furnished by the passing year. It is the uncertain tenure of our existence. A sad thought it is, that the warmest friendship or love which ever glowed within the breast of man, is inadequate to ward off the shafts, or annul the mandate, of Death. We hold our span of life beneath a curtain, from whose folds depend the shears of fate, by which the silver cord or the golden bowl of hope may be destroyed in a moment. What avail the partialities or the solicitude of friends and of kindred, in stations like these? Death, a hidden spectre, walks, ever-threatening, at our side, yet we mark not the grimness of his visage, nor the tendency of his spear. Anon, the blow is struck,-the bolt has descended,-the beloved of our hearts sink away on the right hand and on the left; and we come to feel that the objects of our affection or our regard, are girded to us by a bond, frailer than the spider's most attenuated web:' · Tell me what is life, I pray?— 'Tis a changing April day, Now dull as March, now, blithe as May; A little cloud, a little light, Nought certain, but th' approach of night; At morn and evening, dew appears, And life begins and ends in tears: 'Tis a varied-sounding bell, Now a triumph, now a knell; At first it rings of hope and pleasure, Then sorrow mingles in the measure; |