Produced by Joshua Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by Cornell University Digital Collections) THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY: DEVOTED TO LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY. VOL. III.--APRIL, 1863.--No. IV. THE WONDERS OF WORDS. Every nation has its legend of a 'golden age'--when all was young and fresh and fair--'_comme les couleurs primitives de la nature_'--even before the existence of this gaunt shadow of Sorrow--_the shadow of ourselves_--that ever stalks in company with us;--an epoch of Saturnian rule, when gods held sweet converse with men, and man primeval bounded with all the elasticity of god-given juvenility: ('Ah! remember, This--all this--was in the olden Time long ago.') And even now, in spite of our atheism and our apathism, amid all the overwhelming world-influences of this great 'living Present'--the ghost of the dead Past will come rushing back upon us with its solemn voices and its infinite wailings of pity: but soft and faint it comes; for the wild jarrings of the Now almost prevent us from hearing its still, small voices. It 'Is but a _dim-remembered_ story Of the old time entombed.' Besides, what is History but the story of the bygone? The elegy, too, comes to us as the last lamenting, sadly solemn swan-song of that glorious golden time. And, indeed, are not all poesies but various notes of that mighty diapason of Thought and Feeling, that has, through the ages, been singing itself in jubilee and wail? So it is in the individual--(for is not the individual ever the rudimental, formula-like expression of that awful problem which nations and humanity itself are slowly and painfully working out?): in the 'moonlight of memory' these sorrowful mementos revisit every one of us; and ----'But I am not _now_ That which I _have been_'-- and _vanitas vanitatum!_ are not only the satisfied croakings of _blase_ Childe Harolds, but our universal experience; while from childhood's gushing glee even unto manhood's sad satiety, we feel that all are nought but the phantasmagoria 'of a creature _Moving about in worlds not realized_.' Listen now to a snatch of melody: 'The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose, The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, wherever I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth!'