Imperceptibly, almost, it fades, and is replaced 

 by one of a different quality — the light of day — 

 which creeps over the world until at length one 

 is aware that that other, which was neither of the 

 night nor of the day, has gone. Long pale lines 

 of fog and fleecy banks of clouds now evolve upon 

 the horizon. The earth remains suffused in this 

 cold light, which fascinates and still repels, making 

 the ranges look distant and severe, and giving to 

 the whole face of Nature an unsympathetic look. 

 It is the beauty of marble, a Gorgon beauty, which 

 chills the heart. In that scene is no note of human 

 passion. Those pale clouds, cold and gray as the 

 ashes of the fire, seem to lure to some beyond, as 

 if they would draw one from the world of life 

 and warmth to some region of cold and death. 



Presently comes a faint blush in the sky and 

 over the hills, a new warmth of light, as if blood 

 now ran in those marble veins. It is the foreglow, 

 which is to the sunrise what the afterglow is to 

 the sunset. Color is again born into the world, 

 and the earth is once more alive and sympathetic. 

 As the sun rises, dawn, the exquisite dawn, the 

 most ethereal thing that mortal eyes shall ever 

 behold, flees away into the uttermost parts of 

 194 



