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The Floating Press - Joseph Lucas

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67 pages

English

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Description

This thought-provoking series of essays addresses various "lures," or enticing traps that aren't what they appear to be and can provoke confusion in one's thinking and behavior. Author Joseph Lucas doesn't shy away from big ideas or controversy -- the "lures" he tackles range from democracy to Jesus Christ.

Sujets

Spirit

Body

Mind

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776530199
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

LURES OF LIFE
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JOSEPH LUCAS

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Lures of Life First published in 1919 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-019-9 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-020-5 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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I - The Lure of Life's Afterglow II - The Lure of Happiness III - The Lure of Self-Denial IV - The Lure of Magic Words V - The Lure of an Old Tuscan Garden VI - The Lure of the Montelupo Plate VII - The Lure of Pluck VIII - The Lure of Old Furniture IX - The Lure of Personality X - The Lure of Nice People XI - The Lure of the New Democracy XII - Jesus Christ the Lure of the Ages XIII - The Lure of the Living Word XIV - The Lure of the Eucharist Endnotes
I - The Lure of Life's Afterglow
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A friend put me in remembrance that I had a birthday recently. Birthdayemotion with an old man is an extinct crater. When I was young a comingbirthday set my pulse throbbing to mad music weeks beforehand; it filledme with delightful anticipations. Romance gathered round the happyevent. Our thoughts tripped capriciously along the primrose paths of thefuture. I felt myself preordained to greatness. The hoarded treasureheld in bond for me was surely there awaiting delivery, and Time themagician's wand would wave its largesse into my outstretched eagerhands, and, clothed in honour, I should ride prosperously all the daysof my life.
To the youngster starting on the grand tour of life, the journey is asplendid venture. The cup held to the lips overflows with rich, ripe,sparkling liquor; every draught of it is nectar, exhilarating thespirits, expanding the experience, and discoursing music on every chordof the harp of a thousand strings. It is superb doing, riding life on aflowing tide when the warm south wind blows, and the air is redolentwith aromatic spices, when driftwood floats from distant climes, andshore-birds sail in the central blue signalling that the Land of Heart'sDesire will soon be reached. Truly youth takes life with a zest of itsown.
Yes, the birthday is a happy day to the young. You rejoice that you area year older and of added consequence and stature in the world of men,and a step nearer realizing the daydreams sweetly dreamed in school,when the magic of life filled you with wonder and awe. Birthday joyincreases immensely until the period of ecstatic joy crowns all, whenyou score twenty-one years and write yourself down a man. You are nolonger a flower in the bud worn in anybody's buttonhole, but awell-developed plant on your own root growing in the open. When you gettwice twenty-one birthday joy cloys on your palate, and you begin toresent the intrusion of the natal day as an unwelcome guest that youhave seen too often. He reminds you that you are growing old and growingolder. Your friends may crown the day with roses and toast you at theevening dinner in your best champagne let loose for the occasion, butthe obvious remains, and your response to their unblushing flattery isnot gushing as of yore. You tire of birthday greetings and birthdayfestivities; your vivacity flags; your digestion suffers. The thoughtsthat adorn the occasion are chiefly reminiscent, for the horizon of thefuture is narrowing down and leaves less space for Fancy in which to flyher kite.
When I had covered my half-century a curious feeling like an electricshock chased along every fibre of my being on facing the cold, hard factfor the first time; I had grown old, and done it surreptitiously. Timeglides smoothly, silently, swiftly, and startled as from a deep sleep,one marvels at the hot haste of the rolling years. You dread nearingthe vortex of the great unknown to which we all inevitably steer, andfinally sink beneath its swirling surface. The outlook is disturbing.Can't you put down the brake and gentle the pace? Will no opiate drugTime into forgetfulness? You try the rejuvenating influences of Mrs.Allen's Hair Restorer, but nothing happens. The bald spot on the crownof your head increases in baldness and shining splendour. The longeryou watch it, the larger it grows. Time baffles your artful devices,smiles at your wild alarms, and drives from you the crimson days ofyouth, with their vigour and vivacity, leaving in your possession afeeling of comfortable lethargy which solidifies into pacificblissfulness. Insensibly a change has passed over you with the mountingyears. How the change wrought you do not know. Where you crossed thefrontier which in the twinkling of an eye ranked you amongst the eldersyou cannot say. Who can tell the moment when summer ends and autumncommences? Who can cut a clean cleavage between afternoon and eveninghours?
However, you settle down to an old man's pleasures. You dislike beinghustled after dinner. You prefer a quiet rubber at Bridge in a cosyroom, with shaded lights, and a silent cigar with cronies of a choice,familiar brand as playmates. You prefer it to strenuously dancing in astuffy, glaring ball-room till morning hours chase the stale and wearydancers to their homes. It is too fatiguing an amusement to makepleasure for you, as there is no new romance to be looked for afterfifty. Anticipation at your ripe age is wasted stimulant. Boys dreamof the future, old men live in the present. Youth, once upon a time,was an asset held in hand, a rich inheritance to be proud of, but nowthe treasury of youth is spent to the last coin and only the emptycoffer remains, a memento of the vanished wealth of early days. You area middle-aged man aged fifty, and you settle down to it solidly andsquarely and comfortably. You will never be young and flippant againthis side the harbour-bar.
As we steer cautiously into the sixties and face the grand climacteric,life grows pensive. Sober reflections automatically cast theirlengthening shadows over us. We have drunk copiously of the wine oflife, and are now coming to the dregs of the bottle. We get moody.Meridian sunshine has not fructified the promise of youth as weappointed it. Lean years have eaten up years of plenty. We havegathered tares with the wheat which brought disappointment into thestorehouse. Varied experiences have chequered life with cross lightsand shadows. The grand ideals of sanguine youth have dissolved likedreams at daybreak, and instead of the great achievement ours is thecommon lot. Rates and taxes are hardy annuals that flourish undisturbedamidst the ruins. Are we downhearted because the romance of life hasfizzled out like spent fireworks and left us in darkness? We did notexpect to finish up in obscurity. Are we downhearted? No; after thestruggle and stress of conflict we get our second breath; and the calmof age overtakes us. The halcyon hours set in to cheer us. I now moveairily along the line of least resistance, and this brings tranquillityof mind in my advancing years. We are no longer broody. Experiencebreaks one in gently to the monotony of daily routine, and the collarneither frets nor rubs the shoulder, for the velvet lining ofcontentment softens the friction and we trudge along serenely goingWest.
Everything contributes to make an old man's lot happy if the salt oflife has not lost its savour. We have played the game, and now we watchothers take their innings. It is good fun to watch. I tell you it ismusic to the eye watching the gay young world go its own way. Theswagger, the bravoure , the buoyancy of its manners, stagger the dullparental mind. There is rhythm in its movements, there is character inits gaiety. It tops the record of the far-off days of splendour whenwe, their portly ancestors, were down in the arena beating up the dustof conflict, and considered ourselves the cream of modernity and thefinest goods in the market. The youth of to-day has its hand on thewheel and the joy-car pads merrily, heedless of speed limits, for timehas no limit and life sings a pleasant song to boys of the new régime.
Life's afterglow is the period when the past is viewed through thegolden haze of memory and we live over again the days of our youth, thesplendid days of hope and promise. Pleasant things and pleasant peopleare remembered, and disagreeable events that vexed us are forgotten. Wewipe clean from the slate memories that are unwelcome. From the mellowydistance we admire the picture in its broad outlines; its uninterestingdetails drop out of sight. It is the vivid patches of colour upon thecanvas where the eye lingers lovingly and long. It is the happy pastthat enchants the memory to-day.
An old man glances over his shoulder adown the long pathway of recedingyears hungrily, and muses to himself, "Oh, to be out in the world againas I knew it fifty years ago, with the same sunny people about me; tomeet them on the old familiar footing. We had capacious times together;we understood one another and loved one another with kindred hearts andflowing speech. I talk with people nowadays, but these new friends ofmine are not responsive. There is a glass screen between us as we talktogether; we sit near one another, but we are far apart. I catch afar-off glint in their eye which holds me at arm's-length. Our lips arerestrained, our thoughts are bottled up. It seems like sitting togetherin a room with blinds drawn, talking in the dark. Yes; new friends atbest are but amiable strangers, for we met one another only when theflower of life had wilted and the leaf was sere and yellow on the tree.The full, unrestrained days when the sap was rising, the blossoming daysof youth, were lived apart. I do not know these g