Montgomery County sentinel. [volume] (Rockville, Md.) 1855-1974, 1873-10-10
/ vol. XIX.--NO. IL

ues, and alas for our idolatry forever nf-
Ter We have seen diamonds, rubios,
and sapphires under the crystal running
water we grasped the treasures in our
hands, and alas for our Jewels turned to
glass and pebbles. So, being made wise
by long experience, we prefer our proph
cts under the "Silvcr Veil" We re-
quest our gods to visit us as Jupiter did
Semule, encompassed by clouds. We
love to watch the rise of great soul
we stand ''afar off" in the uncertain twi-
light, with an eye on its fight, and like
Bryant when watching the sailing away
of the lovely Waterfowl ! We ask
"Whither, amid falling dew,
When glow the heavens with the steps Of day,
For thro' their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way"
And when we think it has disappeared
like Hiawaithas-
SIN the glory OF the sunset,
In the purple mists of evening
TO the Islands OF the Blessed
We-don't thank anybody for assuring
and proving to US that it has al shted US.
dixie the Waterfowl, y in marsh, some
six or eight miles to the westward and
when we hear some lofty mind replying
to this worlds loud challenge, as 'Jura
answers from her misty shrcud back to
the Joyous Alps,'
We do net like to see some curious in
termeddler tear away the misty shroud'
that all the world may see how small an
affair, after all, is the Jura, yelled bca
meath its folds. Not at all if it is a de-
lusion to believe there are great souls
about us, let us enjoy it, nevertheless
10 US there is charm in the folded
flower; in the lamp within vase, which
all may see, yet mono may touch. Con-
scquently, we don't puncture our noiglA
bors with interrogation points, and We
will excuse them from trying the said
operation on us. Consequently, we love
a little mystery tliac of fog-some-
thing that battles analysis. And, we be-
licye that
''Not wise, not easily forgiven
Arc those who, setting de the doors that bar
The secret bridal-chaniLers of the heart,
Let in the garish day
But, it is under fog that We live, that
we float and drift, on and on, down Upon
the very Infinite 1t envelopes us like Il
shroud Yondor is tho beautiful Indian
Summer haze that hangs over the Past,
full of the "sheated sunshine" yet still
mist and mystery. Here. too, in tic
fog of the Present, says Carlyle; eJiight
mortals, how ye walk your life niInuct
over bottomloss abysscs, divided from
you by film !" Verify, life is but u
vapor, and we are but "chldrcn of tho
mist" gigantic, it may be- as the spectre
of the Broken, but pcrishablc. fair and
feeting as the ''Whte Lady of Avenel."
And yet, some one, lleadley, perhaps,
(though we cannot now reiiieniber1 has d
most beautiful idea concerning the life
mlsts in which we journey from the Graz
die to the grave. 1t is, in substance.
that although these clouds seem dark and
cold to us who are walking in the midst
Of them, yet to the angels above us, who
see Gods great purposes in all and each
Of them, they arc bright and glorious
and luminous, as are to us, the golden
and amber-tintcd clouds of Summers
sunset; for in them and through them
they sec and recognize the reflected glo-
ries of the "Son of righteousness
GLAUCUS.
IULATIA. H,DItoujsru m M