He said, 'It was not boisterous, like the rush of
the tempest; it was not fierce, like the lightning; it was not loud,
like the thunder; but it was a still sma' voice, like a wee cricket in
the wa's.' I regard the cricket that chirruped in the wall as an
institution. One of the past to be sure, swept away by the current of
progress, whose course is onward always; over everything, obliterating
everything, hurling the things of today into history, or burying them
in eternal oblivion. In this country there is nothing fixed, nothing
stationary, and never has been since the first white man swung his axe
against the outside forest tree; since the first green field was
opened up to the sunlight from the deep shadows of the old forests
that had stood there, grand, solemn, and boundless since this
world was first thrown from the hand of God. There will be nothing
fixed for centuries to come. The tide of progress will sweep onward in
the future as it has done in the past. Onward is the great watchword
of America, and American institutions; onward and onward, over the
ancient forests; onward, over the log-houses that stood in the van of
civilization; over the great fire-places; over the cricket in the
wall; over the old house dog that slept in the corner; over the loved
faces that clustered around the blazing hearth in the days of our
childhood; over everything primitive, everything, my friends, that you
and I loved, when we were little children, and that comes drifting
along down on the current of memory--bright visions of the returnless
past.
Pages:
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272