I love everything that's old, - old friends, old times, old

Ah, listen, and let the heart open to the gentle wisdom of ages past. When Oliver Goldsmith wrote, “I love everything that’s old — old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine,” he did not merely express nostalgia; he was uttering a sacred hymn to the enduring beauty of memory. In his words, one hears not the tired sigh of an aging soul, but the triumphant heartbeat of one who has walked through time and found treasure in what endures. To love what is old is to love that which has been tested — that which has survived the storms and yet remains full of quiet dignity.

Goldsmith lived in the 18th century, an age where the old world began to yield to the new. The age of reason, science, and restless progress had dawned — yet Goldsmith stood, perhaps wistfully, as a guardian of the old virtues: friendship, courtesy, learning, and tradition. He had seen the fleeting glamour of novelty and found it hollow compared to the steady glow of what had weathered years. Old friends are not merely companions; they are the mirrors that reflect who we once were and who we have become. In their laughter, the echoes of youth still sing; in their eyes, we read forgiveness and shared history. To love old friends is to honor the roots of one’s soul.

Consider, for a moment, the Roman general Cincinnatus, who, after saving his city from ruin, returned to his humble farm instead of seizing power. He belonged to an age where old manners — humility, duty, and restraint — were virtues more precious than gold. And centuries later, his name became a symbol of integrity. Such is the power of the “old ways”: they do not vanish; they endure through memory, shaping generations that come after. Goldsmith’s love for “old manners” is a cry for the preservation of that nobility of spirit — a call to remember that refinement lies not in luxury but in virtue.

“Old books,” too, are vessels of immortal thought. Within their faded pages live the voices of the wise — philosophers, poets, and prophets who once dreamed of truth and beauty. To love old books is to converse with the dead who still whisper counsel into our living ears. Every crease and stain upon their pages is the mark of a hand that once turned them with reverence. In an age that rushes forward, where screens flash and vanish, the old book still waits patiently, offering wisdom to those who will pause long enough to listen.

And “old wine” — ah, the poet chose well. For what is wine but time distilled? In its richness, one tastes the patience of years, the labor of unseen hands, the slow ripening under the sun. It teaches us that some things grow sweeter with age, that greatness cannot be rushed, that maturity, though it may come with sorrow, also brings depth and serenity. The old wine and the old heart share a secret: both are full-bodied because they have endured the fermentation of life.

So too, let us cherish our old times, for they are the soil from which the present grows. To reject them is to sever one’s own roots. Remember the tale of a Japanese craftsman, whose family had for centuries made the same style of lacquerware bowls. When modern methods threatened to replace his art, he continued to shape each piece by hand, saying, “The spirit of my ancestors is in this work.” When the old ways are lost, so too is the soul of a people. To love old times is to remain faithful to the continuity of human spirit — the golden thread that binds the past to the now.

Thus, the teaching of Goldsmith is clear: do not despise the old, for the old holds the essence of the true and the lasting. In our pursuit of the new, we must not trample upon the foundations that hold us firm. Let us drink from the wells our fathers dug, read the words our ancestors wrote, and walk the paths where wisdom has already left its footprints. Renewal is good — but only when it grows from the roots of remembrance.

So, dear listener, let this be your guide: cherish what has endured. Keep your old friends close; revisit your cherished books; speak with courtesy; remember the laughter of your youth; savor the things that grow finer with time. For life, like wine, gains richness not from haste but from patience. In honoring the old, we do not reject the new — we merely ensure that what is new stands upon the shoulders of what was true.