The weekly mountain Democrat. [volume] (Placerville, El Dorado County, Calif.) 1861-1862, 1861-03-16
VFSo The I.SuiSvilis JouEnai. Jas. Ia, Iesl.
II THE GREAT MTLESTONR.

ney, q pilgrimage; and all mOFtsls are pill.
grims. To-day the Wandering Jew (who
in our Nineteenth Century may be ped
lcr with pack or patent on his restless
shOulders,) after ell, stands by the way
side, and reads upon the out-wOrn face Of
some stone image-an old man with q
chtld's dreaming eyes resting und,r the
SNOWFALL Of his bosom: Is The Great
Milest0ne-I am the Past-Weep." But
there seems soul blOssoming into Q smile
on the marble lips Of the dreaming child
dreaming in mArble-and q whisper
grows into the heart Of the pilgrim: ~
am the Future-Smile." Then the stone
image Of the old man and the dreaming
child vanisbes, and there is . lonely heart
beating the solitude, and it whispers,
Regret not-the old year takes the NOR.
tai, Memory, but the new year gives the
angel, Hope"
All Of Us are that pilgrim; humanity is
the homeless one-ever on threshold but
never passing over it. We all stand al
the great milestone Of time; we see the
marble image-the old man with the child
nestled In the snow Of bis dead bosom
asleep; we al read the traceries Of the
wrinkled face, 81 am the Past-Weep"
and translate the marble dreamer's soul,
"I attn the Future-Smile." And 80 on
the great highway Of the world we pass
the old life Of the dead time and begin the
new life Of the living time-always the
Present lighted with the soul Of the Fu-
ture.
Are there tolling bells-are there fune-
raj trains-are there open graves when
We come to the Great MiIcstoneg The
years closing IL the type OF q great death !;
the air Is full Of tolling beIIs-the dark
ness is thrOnged with funeral trains Of the
vanished hour--the open grave Of the year
shows the collins in the vaults Of our lives
where the holy dead lie beautiful. And
from them arise--for the beautiful faces
are only dust-like exhalations, phantom
like and ghostly, the souls Of the Past
When we pause at the Great Milestone
and read the inscription, I" I am the Past
--Weepi" these are the sounds VIC hear,
or rather the ghosts Of sounds, for they
are echoes Of bells
That distance Of recOgDizance bereaves;
these spirits Of the vanished hours, some
with asphodels and some with amaranth
blooms, the forms that follow the year
whose memory is an old man with child's
head in the drifted snow Of his bosom {;
the open graves we see are in our lives,
and from them the silent companions Of
thought arise on the huShed stairways Of
our hearts.
Death bears the angel Life in his arms
asleep-the marble memory of the old
bears the marble Hope of the new in
its bosom. And Memory and Hope are
the figures that make the pilgrim linger
at the Great Milestone. lie pauses, and
fingers, and listens; he
Looks before and sffer,
And pines for what is not.
He asks stern questions-but the angels
will not answer, and the grave only echoes
them. Behind him il the way he has
come before him is the way his footsteps
were going. And he bends down and
kisses the marble child and whispers into
his ear" Whitber?" And the child
seems waking from its marble dream and
smiling. And this is all; but this is the
assurancc-"I am the Future--SmiIe. "
Then the restless world goes on, "tOiling,
rejoicing, sorrOwing."
We have oil passed these Great Mile.
stones before. All Of us have seen the
0ut-wOrn face with . snowfall Of Time
upon his bosom aud the child that dreams
Of Spring under the snowfall of Winter
he whose voice is silcnce-"I am the Past
--Wecp"--and he whose smile ia Ian.
guage--" am the Future-Smile.
In the Roman Forum there was gildcd
pillar called the NiIIiGrium AUTeum,
from which every distance was measured
in ell directions from this great heart OF
the Empire. And, sometimes, looking
back, We see the Great Milestone trans
figured in some holy light
The light that never was on sea or shore.
Tho eonsecrAtiOn and the poets dream
and the marble image has halIow about
it's brow and Is divine form Of immortal
youth and glory; these are golden Mile
stones in our lives, and eli our dusty
paths lead backward 70 them, and from
them the distances are marked upon our
brows and hearts; they are crowned with
the transhgured Past--the angel and moi
the mortal Memory.
But when We leave the Great Milcstones
with their stone images Of age and weari.
ness and decay, the child that We leave,
sleeping and smiling marble in the snow
Of the old mans bosom, steals from the
arms ofeach and leaps before us, and pre-.
sently we sce far of, where the sun
touches some hight whence the breath Ol
morning brings Us the souls Of diviner
flowers, the true Golden Milestone of ouT
lives standing; and the marble child
cleaning with glory and Drowned with
. sun wreath and lifted with wings, smiles
from the Great Milestone that marks the
better years"
All, the better yearsl We pass the
Milestone Of the mortal ebb and flow Ol
Time-we "let the dead Past bury its
dead ," we put our own dead beautiful
and loved in that dead Past's hearses, anG
still we move on and trust the smile ant
<eEget the tears; and still
"On TIE soul
Bright from the billtOPs Of the Beautiful
Bursts the attained goal"
the Golden Milestone ofour longing. AnG
we learn the lesson that between HcrC
and There is life, and that the Great Mile
stones arc but devices of the Way. W.
are pilgrims between
HERE AND THERE.
Here the weariuess aud pain,
The sultry toll. tbe dragging chain;
Here, 10 funeral array,
In his coffin goes To-Day;
Theirs, uaknoWn Of night OF soFrOw-,
COtEin.cradled. smiles To. Morrow!
The Memm0n hfe, 90 dumb tonight,
Sings against thAt Morning lightI
Here the tOilIng FEET, the eyes
Blindly fesling ioe the skies;
Here the mountains paths Of Ice
Crawling Fouud the precipice;
q Here The BsdeavoF Of The Soul;
There Aspiration and The jAil;
TIE Ideal from The sunny slope,
Like ~ asssl kissisS HOps!
Here November bears the bier
There Nay goes siBgisg the Green Year;
Here lies The statue carved 10 stone
These cInanA 10 A Heart PVRwaliOmi