THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 81 



XIX. 



Aug. 17 j '02. How beautiful the green liv- 

 ery of nature in the country on these mid- Au- 

 gust days ! The many rains of the season have 

 enhanced the depth of that green, have clothed 

 the face of earth in her most luxuriant garb. 

 Peace, calm, quietude; here, if anywhere, they 

 reign! Not even the droning of a bumblebee 

 breaks the quiet of the Sabbath morn. 



After he passes his fortieth milestone, life for 

 every man moves on apace. It is not to be 

 measured by days, but by deeds accomplished. 

 For what are minutes, hours, days, years, cen- 

 turies? Naught but the inventions of man to 

 serve his own convenience. No calendars there 

 are in the life of the gods. Their time moves 

 on, unbroken and unheeded, I would at times, 

 that I were on some tropical isle with time go- 

 ing on and on but with no means of measuring 

 the years as they sped by ; with no knowledge of 

 Anno Domini or B. C. ; with no thought of to- 

 morrow, of the centuries past and the centuries 

 yet to be. Only the grave will furnish such an 

 isle, and there no memory or cerebral sense will 



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