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Updated: May 5, 2025
If you have not, I hope you may, for the sooner you have this glorious picture on your memory's walls, the brighter will be your future, and you will have a bit of beauty which need not be forgotten even in heaven itself.
From Scotland Memory's sprite appears as a powerful lad with bare knees; the plaid hangs over his shoulder, the thistle-flower is fixed on his cap; Burns's songs then fill the air like the heath-lark's song, and Scotland's wild thistle flowers beautifully fragrant as the fresh rose. But now for Memory's sprite from Sweden, from Upsala.
It resembles thus far mere sensual pleasure, a savoury dish, a glass of good wine, an excellent cigar, a warm bed, which impose themselves on the nerves without expenditure of attention; with the result, of course, that little or nothing remains, a sensual impression dying, so to speak, childless, a barren, disconnected thing, without place in the memory, unmarried as it is to the memory's clients, thought and human feeling.
We accentuate the detail slightly, our reason being that Janet, whenever she had occasion to tell how it all happened, was sure to make mention of the brass hubs. Unconscious as she may have been of it at the time, the hubs commanded the scene and formed the shining high-light of memory's picture; and as the years passed they took on a still brighter polish.
My outings from my beaten track have been brief, but have contributed a large stock of happy memories. Camping in California is a joy that never palls, and among the pleasantest pictures on memory's walls are the companionship of congenial friends in the beautiful surroundings afforded by the Santa Cruz Mountains.
Like sun-lit glades, The dimmest shades Some rosy beam can borrow. It is not that our later years Of cares are woven wholly, But smiles less swiftly chase the tears, And wounds are healed more slowly. And Memory's vow To lost ones now, Makes joys too bright, unholy. And ever fled the Iris bow That smiled when clouds were o'er us.
There had been rounders during the afternoon. It was a day to be for ever marked by memory's brightest what's-its-name. I should not have said anything about the picnic but for one thing. It was the thin edge of the wedge. It was the all-powerful lever that moved but too many events. And we went there whenever we could. Only we had to take the dogs, and to promise no bathing without grown-ups.
Up thither then is our way! lead us, memory's sprite, into the palace, the courteous governor of Upland's dwelling; mild glances greet us; we see dear beings in a happy circle, and all the leading characters of Upsala.
There there not seen save by memory's eye, yet there not the less, was Bayou des Acadiens. Ah me! there was Grande Pointe. "O Bonaventure! Do I owe you" Claude's thought was in the old Acadian tongue "Do I owe you malice for this? No, no, no! Better this than less."
A long line of names comes at memory's call in the various walks of life, clergymen, authors, teachers, physicians, lawyers, and merchants, men and women whom we delight to honor. "They hurry from out the forgotten past, Through the gathered mist of years, From the halls of memory, dim and vast, Where they have buried lain in the shadows cast By recent joys or fears."
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