than to entertain any less cheerful opinion.  No.  It is rather to perpetuate the remembrance of what has been, or to qualify more truthfully and modestly the expression, to save it for a moment longer from oblivion.  It is with a melancholy pleasure that one who has reached that stage of the journey of life, from which henceforth his progress can only be one of continued descent towards the valley whereon broods the cloud not untouched with rays of divine light, reverts to whatever, even though they may seem trifles, characterized the beginning of his career.  Ah! it was the breaking of the morning.  For a time the sky glowed with a deepening glory, to fade at last into the “light of common day.”  We never can, we never would forget that lovely dawning.

Holden, nothing doubting, was confident that the voyage would terminate for him in the restoration to his arms, of the son whom he had mourned as one dead.  Nor did he seem to have a doubt of the worthiness of the long lost treasure.  A hope, brilliant and beautiful, that glorified whatever it touched, had taken absolute possession of him.  It would admit no fear, no uncertainty, no despondency.  The new feeling penetrated all departments of his mind, and mixed itself up with and colored even his religious speculations.  He began to connect, in some way, the realization of his awakened hopes with the millennium, of which it was to be a forerunner.  This appeared especially on the second day of the voyage, which lasted three days.

It was a warm, bright afternoon in the latter part of the month of May, just before the setting of the sun, and Holden and Pownal had walked to the bow of the vessel, as if to be nearer the golden luminary when he should sink from sight.  A gentle breeze filled the sails of the Calypso, the soft murmur from under whose cutwater seemed to testify to the delight with which she moved on her liquid way.  For some time Holden had stood with folded arms, watching the sun, as by slow degrees he sunk into the waves.  Pownal, himself, was thrillingly alive to the magnificence of earth, and sky, and ocean, and all fair forms and hues of nature, and noticing the exalted and rapt expression of his elder friend’s face, and sympathizing in the influence that produced it, was in no mood to break the silence.

“Type of the Infinite,” at last Pownal heard him say, “how have I loved to watch thy coming and departure!  Chariot of fire, whose burning wheels support the throne of judgment, thy course is onward until the fullness of the time is come.  Of man’s impatience thou reckest not.  With thee a thousand years are as a day.”

He ceased speaking, and a total silence for some time succeeded.  His eyes continued fixed upon the spot where the sun had disappeared, but they saw nothing.  An interior struggle was going on which engrossed the faculties, and left no opportunity for the observation of external objects.  Repeatedly he passed his hand over his eyes and forehead, pressing the palm forcibly, as if to concentrate the attention, and at length he addressed Pownal.