AGE AND YOUTH.
[TO THE EDITOR OP THE "SPECTATOR."]
SIE,—In your thoughtful paper upon " Old Age," in the Spectator of December 31st, you, to my thinking, rightly, appre- ciate the joys rather than "pity the sorrows of a poor old man ;" but there is one sorrow you do not lay your finger on strongly enough,—the awful speed with which, as we grow old, the generation just above us topples over the inevitable brink, and joins the majority. Father, mother, uncles and aunts, the village neighbours and friends who were part of our lives from the very cradle, the dear old nurse, the " master so kind and so true,"—all, every one of them, go ; and there is no love of our mature years that can quite take the place of that love, not even the sweet affection of wife, the devotion of children, or the- pleasant communion of " bosom cronies."
I, Sir, was fifty last birthday. I am glad to say I enjoy life as much, I think, as ever I did; I still build castles in the air,. I believe quite as bright, and I am sure quite as tottery, as those I built at school. I can play lawn-tennis with all the zest I ever had for cricket or hockey in those days. I enjoy- my meals as much, and my beer. I love art, scenery, a good. novel, more ; and I certainly go to my own particular " shop " in the City with all the ardour that I did (between ourselves, with more than I did) five-and-twenty years ago ; and as for walking,—I never delighted in a long walk as I do now. But, Sir—and ah, what a terrible " but " it is !—every year another of "the old, familiar faces" is gone, and there is such a gap as nothing in this world can fill up. Why, Sir, I protest that one-- thing which assures me of immortality is the feeling that I must renew this delightful, this inimitable intercourse with the dear old friends of yesterday, in " the broad to-day of God."—
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