It may
be Ledyard or the Wandering Jew. Whence, pray, did he come out
of the foggy night? and whither through the sunny day will he
go? We observe only his transit; important to us, forgotten by
him, transiting all day. There are two of them. May be, they
are Virgil and Dante. But when they crossed the Styx, none were
seen bound up or down the stream, that I remember. It is only a
_transjectus_, a transitory voyage, like life itself, none but
the long-lived gods bound up or down the stream. Many of these
Monday men are ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes with
hired horses, with sermons in their valises all read and gutted,
the day after never with them. They cross each other's routes
all the country over like woof and warp, making a garment of
loose texture; vacation now for six days. They stop to pick nuts
and berries, and gather apples by the wayside at their leisure.
Good religious men, with the love of men in their hearts, and the
means to pay their toll in their pockets. We got over this ferry
chain without scraping, rowing athwart the tide of travel,--no
toll for us that day.
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