ossibility of
true intimacy and converse between the young and the old? Hamerton, for
example, in his book on Human Intercourse, would have us believe that
a difference in years is a barrier between hearts. For my part, I
have more often found it an open door, and a security of generous and
tolerant welcome for the young soldier, who comes in tired and dusty
from the battle-field, to tell his story of defeat or victory in the
garden of still thoughts where old age is resting in the peace of
honourable discharge. I like what Robert Louis Stevenson says about it
in his essay on Talk and Talkers.

"Not only is the presence of the aged in itself remedial, but their
minds are stored with antidotes, wisdom's simples, plain considerations
overlooked by youth. They have matter to communicate, be they never so
stupid. Their talk is not merely literature, it is great literature;
classic by virtue of the speaker's detachment; studded, like a book of
travel, with things we should not otherwise have learnt . . . where youth
agrees with age, not where they differ, wisdom lies; and it is when
the young disciple finds his heart to beat in tune with his gray-haired
teacher's that a lesson may be learned."

The conversation of the Mistress of the Glen shone like the light and
distilled like the dew, not only by virtue of what she said, but still
more by virtue of what she was. Her face was a good counsel against
discouragement; and the cheerful quietude of her demeanour was a rebuke
to all rebellious, cowardly, and discontented thoughts. It was not the
striking novelty or profundity of her commentary on life that made it
memorable, it was simply the truth of what she said and the gentleness
with which she said it. Epigrams are worth little for guidance to the
perplexed, and less for comfort to the wounded. But the plain, homely
sayings which come from a soul that has learned the lesson of patient
courage in the school of real experience, fall upon the wound like
drops of balsam, and like a soothing lotion up on the eyes smarting and
blinded with passion.

She spoke of those who had walked with her long ago in her garden, and
for whose sake, now that they had all gone into the world of light,
every flower was doubly dear. Would it be a true proof of loyalty to
them if she lived gloomily or despondently because they were away? She
spoke of the duty of being ready to welcome happiness as well as to
endure pain, and of the strength that e