old acquaintance, whose business with Time is ended forever, though
their accounts remain to be settled at a future day. It is terrible,
sometimes, to perceive the lingering reluctance, the shivering agony,
with which the poor souls bid Time farewell, if they have gained no
other friend to supply the gray deceiver's place. How do they cling to
Time, and steal another and yet another glance at his familiar aspect!
But Time, the hard-hearted old fellow! goes through such scenes with
infinite composure, and dismisses his best friends from memory the
moment they are out of sight. Others, who have not been too intimate
with Time, as knowing him to be a dangerous character, and apt to ruin
his associates,--these take leave of him with joy, and pass away with a
look of triumph on their features. They know, that, in spite of all his
flattering promises, he could not make them happy, but that now they
shall be so, long after Time is dead and buried.

For Time is not immortal. Time must die, and be buried in the deep
grave of eternity. And let him die. From the hour when he passed forth
through the gate of Eden, till this very moment, he has gone to and fro
about the earth, staining his hands with blood, committing crimes
innumerable, and bringing misery on himself and all mankind. Sometimes
he has been a pagan; sometimes a persecutor. Sometimes he has spent
centuries in darkness, where he could neither read nor write. These
were called the Dark Ages. There has hardly been a single year, when he
has not stirred up strife among the nations. Sometimes, as in France
less than fifty years ago, he has been seized with fits of frenzy, and
murdered thousands of innocent people at noonday. He pretends, indeed,
that he has grown wiser and better now. Trust him who will; for my
part, I rejoice that Time shall not live forever. He hath an appointed
office to perform. Let him do his task, and die. Fresh and young as he
would make himself appear, he is already hoary with age; and the very