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All that day we marched on, and when at night we made camp, sleep came to us quickly and overmastering. An hour after dawn we were on our way. A brief stop we made for lunch; pressed forward.
It was close to two when we caught the first sight of the ruins.
The soaring, verdure-clad walls of the canyon had long been steadily marching closer. Above, between their rims the wide ribbon of sky was like a fantastically shored river, shimmering, dazzling; every cove and headland edged with an opalescent glimmering as of shining pearly beaches.
And as though we were sinking in that sky stream’s depths its light kept lessening, darkening imperceptibly with luminous shadows of ghostly beryl, drifting veils of pellucid aquamarine, limpid mists of glaucous chrysolite.
Fainter,Billiga Canada Goose Chilliwack Bomber, more crepuscular became the light,Billiga Nike Free Powerlines Herr, yet never losing its crystalline quality. Now the high overhead river was but a brook; became a thread. Abruptly it vanished.
We passed into a tunnel,Jalkapalloklubi Barcelona Pelipaidat, fern walled, fern roofed, garlanded with tawny orchids, gay with carmine fungus and golden moss. We stepped out into a blaze of sunlight.
Before us lay a wide green bowl held in the hands of the clustered hills; shallow, circular, as though, while plastic still, the thumb of God had run round its rim,Maillot Stade Rennais Pas Cher, shaping it. Around it the peaks crowded, craning their lofty heads to peer within.
It was about a mile in its diameter,Billiga M?n Vattent?t jackor, this hollow, as my gaze then measured it. It had three openings — one that lay like a crack in the northeast slope; another, the tunnel mouth through which we had come. The third lifted itself out of the bowl, creeping up the precipitous bare scarp of the western barrier straight to the north, clinging to the ochreous rock up and up until it vanished around a far distant shoulder.
It was a wide and bulwarked road,Billiga Belstaff Icon Jackor, a road that spoke as clearly as though it had tongue of human hands which had cut it there in the mountain’s breast. An ancient road weary beyond belief beneath the tread of uncounted years.
From the hollow the blind soul of loneliness groped out to greet us!
Never had I felt such loneliness as that which lapped the lip of the verdant bowl. It was tangible — as though it had been poured from some reservoir of misery. A pool of despair —
Half the width of the valley away the ruins began. Weirdly were they its visible expression. They huddled in two bent rows to the bottom,Maillot Sturridge. They crouched in a wide cluster against the cliffs. From the cluster a curving row of them ran along the southern crest of the hollow.
A flight of shattered, cyclopean steps lifted to a ledge and here a crumbling fortress stood.
Irresistibly did the ruins seem a colossal hag, flung prone, lying listlessly, helplessly, against the barrier’s base. The huddled lower ranks were the legs, the cluster the body, the upper row an outflung arm and above the neck of the stairway the ancient fortress,Maillot Indiana Hoosiers, rounded and with two huge ragged apertures in its northern front was an aged, bleached and withered head staring, watching.links:
awers, and weepas they think of the tiny feet whose toddling march is done,Memphis Dres, andsweet-faced young ones who place each night beneath their pillow somelock that once curled on a boyish head that the salt waves have kissedto death, will call me a nasty cynical brute and say I'm talkingnonsense; but I believe, nevertheless, that if they will askthemselves truthfully whether they find it unpleasant to dwell thus ontheir sorrow, they will be compelled to answer "No." Tears are assweet as laughter to some natures. The proverbial Englishman, we knowfrom old chronicler Froissart, takes his pleasures sadly, and theEnglishwoman goes a step further and takes her pleasures in sadnessitself.
I am not sneering. I would not for a moment sneer at anything thathelps to keep hearts tender in this hard old world,Luis Suarez Dres. We men are coldand common-sensed enough for all,Maillot University of Maryland; we would not have women the same.
No, no, ladies dear, be always sentimental and soft-hearted, as youare--be the soothing butter to our coarse dry bread. Besides,Barcelona Dres Děti,sentiment is to women what fun is to us. They do not care for ourhumor, surely it would be unfair to deny them their grief. And whoshall say that their mode of enjoyment is not as sensible as ours?
Why assume that a doubled-up body,Maillot Portland Trail Blazers, a contorted, purple face,Billiga Belstaff Knockhill Jackor, and agaping mouth emitting a series of ear-splitting shrieks point to astate of more intelligent happiness than a pensive face reposing upona little white hand, and a pair of gentle tear-dimmed eyes lookingback through Time's dark avenue upon a fading past?
I am glad when I see Regret walked with as a friend--glad because Iknow the saltness has been washed from out the tears, and that thesting must have been plucked from the beautiful face of Sorrow ere wedare press her pale lips to ours. Time has laid his healing hand uponthe wound when we can look back upon the pain we once fainted underand no bitterness or despair rises in our hearts. The burden is nolonger heavy when we have for our past troubles only the same sweetmingling of pleasure and pity that we feel when old knight-heartedColonel Newcome answers "_adsum_" to the great roll-call,Billige Liverpool Drakt Damer, or when Tomand Maggie Tulliver,Maillot I.Rakitic, clasping hands through the mists that havedivided them,Jalkapalloklubi Sporting Kansas City Pelipaidat, go down, locked in each other's arms, beneath theswollen waters of the Floss.
Talking of poor Tom and Maggie Tulliver brings to my mind a saying ofGeorge Eliot's in connection with this subject of melancholy. Shespeaks somewhere of the "sadness of a summer's evening." Howwonderfully true--like everything that came from that wonderfulpen--the observation is! Who has not felt the sorrowful enchantmentof those lingering sunsets? The world belongs to Melancholy then, athoughtful deep-eyed maiden who loves not the glare of day. It is nottill "light thickens and the crow wings to the rocky wood" that shesteals forth from her groves. Her palace is in twilight land. It isthere she meets us. At her shadowy gate she takes our hand in hersand walks beside us through her mystic realm. We see no form, butseem to hear the rustling of her wings.links:
