Connecticut western news., 1895-08-15

And the sails lose all their whiteness
 Inside of tho harbor bar.
 o distancel Thou dear enchanter,
 Still hold in thy magic veil
 The glory of faroff mountains,
 The gleam of the faroff sail.
 Hide in thy robes of splendor,
 O mountain, cold and gray,
 O saiI in thy snowy whiteness,
 Come not into port, pray.
 Man Larger Than the Earth.
 I notice my friends are very busy with their new houses until they are done and finished, and then they begin to talk about going somewhere. Man is a pilgrim and stranger, believe. He is larger than the earth. Lord Chester field says; Ihave enjoyed all the pleas ures of the world, and l do not regret their loss. I have been behind the scenes, and I have seen all the coarse pulleys and dirty ropes which move the gaudy machines. And have seen and smelled the tallow candles which illu- minate the decorations to the astonish ment of an ignorant audience ' The Hebrew king, and the English lord, and the clown in the circus, and the funny man of the newspaper are all solemn people.
 And have said, and say it ever,
 AS the years go on and the world goes over, 'Twere better to be content and clever
 Ill tending of cattle and tossing of clover, In the grazing of cattle and growing of grain,
 Than strong man striving for fame and
 gain.
 Be ever as kline in the red tipped clover,
 For they lie down and their rests are rests.
 Schopenhauer insists that this is the worst possible of all worlds because the misery of it is not quite intolerable. If the misery were only little more we would all make simultaneous rush to suicide and so end the misery by end ing the human material for misery to work on. Thackeray writes in this strain: ''As one sits before the curtain and looks into Vanity Fair feeling of profound melancholy comes over him. In his survey of the bustling place there is great quantity of eating and drink ing, making love and jilting, smoking, cheating, fighting, dancing and fiddling. There are bullies pushing about, knaves picking pockets, policemen on the look out, quacks bawling in front of their booths, countrymen looking up at the tinseled dancers and poor old tumblers, while the light fingered gentry are pick ing their pockets from behind. Look at the faces of the actors and buffoons as they come off from their business and Tom Fool washing the paint off his cheeks before he sits down to dinner be- hind the canvas. The curtain will be up directly, and he will turn head over heels, and cry, Here we are. A man with reflective turn of mind walking through all exhibition of this kind will not be oppressed, take it, with hilari- 1y."
 Tourists Appear All Alike.
 venture to say that in reading the words of Solomon we now and again hit OH fair expression of our own recur- ring feeling-the monotony of life, for instance The way the winds have of circling around, the way the rivers run, the way of fashion. It comes to one that he has been around once, that he has seen the so called new thing before. It is as tiresome as washing dishes, as the sight of summer tourist. Two of them, or 2,G00 of them, seem as alike as two or 2,000 dusters.
 Solomon says, 1T hated all my labor which I had taken under the sun be- cause should leave it to the man that shall be after me, and who knows wheth- CT he be a wise man or fool?" He had been looking at his son Rehoboam. That young man was as empty as 8 drum. The dullness of too much pleas ure-Solomon had sensed that. Once in awhile an English lord comes over here and lives like a trapper for few years, in order to get an appetite again For a castle and a cathedral. Solomon was an accomplished man, we'll up in all the coarse and fine arts and sinner like his father, but he does not speak of his sins as David of his. There is vexa- tion of spirit and aversion to life, but no cry of repentance out of the depths. There is good advice to us, but doubt we can call it good news. It is the ad- vice of a man who simply tells us not to come that way. We share with Solo mon in our feelings of the brevity of life.
 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver; No more by thee my steps shall be Forever and forever.
 A thousand suns will stream thee, A thousand moons shall culver, But not by thee my steps shall be Forever and forever. I could use an hour in reading lines | in this strain from nineteenth century | writers. Some of them write as men who are out of the garden of Eden and see no way to the city of God. They write like children of the wilderness, l children of the thorn and thistle. Solo, mon had what he prayed for-not jus tice, love, mercy, and so faith and hope. 1 He had ill supreme measure the wisdom and the power of this world. But he l tells us happiness is not here, nor here, nor here, It is not in riches, nor rank, nor power A modern poem, much read by Abraham Lincoln, began, as you | know:
 | Like swift feeting meteor, fast flying cloud,
 | A flash of the lightning, break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave Christ Was Needed.
 Is there nothing better than this? If, with every earthly gift, Solomon was a failure, what of the rest of us, the poor, the ignorant, the sick, the anonymous If an earthly life, at its fairest, with nc soul mixed in, is not worth living, what of an average life? don t wonder that the old prophets declared that Christ would come. He was needed. Ido not