MEMORY is that faculty of the mind by which the past is made to appear as the present. It is that mystic chain which binds youth and manhood together, which brings the joys of childhood before the vision of the hoary-headed sage, and throws around him "the light of other days."

      The pleasures of the imagination may be dear to our hearts; we may love to give a free swing to our wild, wandering thoughts, and soar aloft into the bright realms of romance; we may picture to ourselves bowers of bliss amid scenes of unfading youth and beauty, and hear sounds of melody which are strangers to earth; we may revel in the scenes of fancy, as if in a world of our own creation; the world of imagination may be surpassingly beautiful; and all that we can imagine of grace and loveliness may people the regions of unrestrained thought; and yet all these are but shadows, fleeting as the mists of morn--evanescent as the dew before the glowing brightness of the rising day.

      Not thus with the pleasures of memory. It is true, we see not such bright forms as Fancy paints when taking her loftiest flight; yet we can mingle with all we have seen--with all we have known--with all that we have loved. True, the pleasures of the past are mingled with sorrowful emotions; but it is a sorrow that we love to cherish--a grief dearer than joy--a feeling we would not exchange for all the pleasures that are found in the halls of mirth and revelry; it is the wild and plaintive strain of the soul when its mystic strings are struck by Memory's fingers. The eye may dim with tears at the recollection of the bright, departed past, but they are tears in which joy is the principal ingredient--tears which water green spots in the waste of life--tears which make the heart rejoice in its loneliness.

      To the aged man the years of childhood have many charms; the voices heard in other years echo again in the lonely and deserted halls of the heart; the shouts of youthful gladness peal again on his ear; and all the bright and beautiful memories of the past, pure as angels, throng the chambers of the soul. Sweet, sadly sweet, is the memory of the joy and innocency of youth--youth, when on the heart fell only sunshine--youth, the bright and glorious spring-time of our existence. Our skies were then clear--by sorrow and care unclouded. Happy days, ye are past, but not forgotten!

      If memory thus exert her sway over the aged, what must be her power over those who are just changing from youth to manhood?--whose hearts are yet buoyant with hope?--who have not as yet drank of the mingled cup of joy and sorrow?--who are about to enter on life's busy scene, with all its anxiety--with all its care? What must be their emotions when about to sever the ties and associations of youth--to leave, perhaps forever, the home of their childhood--the spot which has been all the world to them! They dream not of sunnier skies than those which overarch them now; nor of fairer flowers than those which bloom in their own quiet vale, to which they are about to say farewell. And though they may go and dwell in the spicy isles of the east, or under skies as cloudless as those of sunny Italy, the dream-like recollections of their cottage home will steal over the heart--forgotten scenes, at the call of Memory, the enchantress, will again appear in all their freshness and beauty, and they will feel it is the dearest place on earth--a spot on which brooding memory delights to linger. Time and distance will vanish; they mingle with the friends, and roam amid the scenes of other years--years when the heart was unstained by sin, and life's pages were traced with the characters of virtue alone, and they will exclaim, in most wishful tones, "Return, return, ye sweet, sinless years!"

      But let the heart be perverted, the passions unchecked--let guilt deface the whole moral features, and memory will become a worse than scorpion sting. All the dark deeds of life will pass before the mental eye in solemn and awful review, and they will cause tears--tears of bitter and unavailing regret. Would you avoid the agonies of remorse? Let your lives be such that the recollection may be sweet, and the pure, unspotted page of memory pleasing to the eye, and when you pass away you shall be embalmed in the memories of those you have loved.

[The Ladies' Repository 10 (November 1850): 358.]

      William Baxter's "Thoughts on Memory" was first published in The Ladies' Repository: A Monthly Periodical Devoted to Literature and Religion, Vol. 10, No. 11, November 1850, p. 358. This volume, edited by B. F. Tefft, was published in Cincinnati by L. Swormstedt and J. H. Power and in New York by G. Lane and L. Scott.

      Addenda and corrigenda are earnestly solicited.

Ernie Stefanik
Derry, PA

Created 15 April 2000.
Updated 28 June 2003.