Idaho semi-weekly world. [volume] (Idaho City, Idaho Territory) 1875-1908, 1885-08-11
SATURDAY NIGHT.
WRITTEN BY SAM. l.. SIMPSON.
That SOmbre shrine, Wntfher wall
fngs and Regrets are Horne.

the winding coast of time, we nave
pitched our tents for season OF re-
freshment and repose; it is Saturday
night. Hard by US, yelled ~ cloud
and mystery, lies the dim, measureless
ocean of eternity, over whose silent
waters our dreams forever float and
fade like moonlit sails, while in the
mist of its fringe of blanching surge !
our hopes come and go like pale, fit
ting rainbows. Yet we are not dis
mayed when, one by one our friends
drop from the noisy ranks OF life and
are borne away, by a phantom bark,
into the mystery and silence OF that
enchanted sea, when disappointments
wound our hearts and the shadow OF
the plume of the grizzly king falls
across our pathway, we stop while
and gaze wistfully over It's stormless
for tie CLINT of passing sail or the
CLEAN OF rising star, but,the great
caravan is moving on and we cannot
fall from the line of march till we,
too, are summoned to join the speech
less voyagers that have gone before.
Though time is but a narrow, crum-
bling strip Of shore along the bound
less ocean Of eternity, from whose
gray wastes no mariner returns to lay
an offering on the shrine of the Samo-
thracian gods, our loves blossom, our
hates consume, and our ambitions soar
just as though this were all and the
playthings of All hour were never to
drop from our relaxing grasp. 1t is
well that this is so, otherwise the mu-
steal whir of the wheels of life would
cease; the smile would fade from the
fragrant lips Of love, labor would fold
his corded arms, ambition stoop his
naughty crest and the nations of men
would come to the shore OF the SOM
bre sea only to wall and wait for
DEATH
But it is well that our hearts should
not be wholly taken by the things of
this world; it's daily cares and brood
ing sorrows, its grinding laoors and
ileeting delights. Henry J. Raymond,
the founder of the New York Times,
used to say that nothing in life was
worth fretting over. While this is
an extreme and cynical view it is yet
true that we soar too high and sink
too low in our thoughts and feelings
concerning worldly Things. The
march of life lies along that wide,
weird sea whose voiceless hunger will
not be denied; and it should mitigate
the pride of riches and the pangs OF
poverty, the JOY of victory and the
sorrow of defeat to reflect that all we
can do is for day that will soon be
ended.
Saturday night Again sit at my
office window and, leaning upon my
hands, gaze toward the gates of sun
set where the sun, fiery disk of Grim.
son, IS just sinking behind the smoky
hills and the beauty of purple shad,
ows aud red and golden lights is
weaving the crown of the weeks re,
pose. Again see men of every craft
and calling vending their homewarc
way, and with what different feelings
TO many, oh SO many! Saturday
night is only somhre shrine whittier
they bear their wailings ard regret.
because their schemes and tolls TO
riches or honor are not prospecting a
they desire. The truth seems to b,
that most men forever fail to grasI
the true theory of life. Means ar,
almost universally mistaken for end
and false idols than those of wood ant
stone are wrapped in the fiery wor
ship of mistaken souls. They forge
that the true object of life is the con
quest of passions and the cultivation
OF mind and heart and soul, and tina
of all the flowers in its fragrant crown
content is the fairest, sweetest.
Success is word of cloudy mean
ing and most of us have lived lons
enough to know that it does not con
sist in vast possessions or proud at
tainments. Gold mocks its gatherer
in the end and the coasts cf fame ar,
misted with the gloom of chiefs ane
heroes. Labor is at once our doom
and guerdon, labor and the growth
and cultivation that result from labor
And by this do not mean the fever
ish and bitter struggler for some phan
tom good, but the gentle and moder
49, no,