I was mistaken, my dear Gino. Long And greatly have I erred. I fancied life A vain and wretched thing, and this, our age, Now passing, vainest, silliest of all. Intolerable seemed, and was, such talk Unto the happy race of mortals, if, Indeed, man ought or could be mortal called. 'Twixt anger and surprise, the lofty creatures laughed Forth from the fragrant Eden where they dwell; Neglected, or unfortunate, they called me; Of joy incapable, or ignorant, To think my lot the common lot of all, Mankind, the partner in my misery. At length, amid the odor of cigars, The crackling sound of dainty pastry, and The orders loud for ices and for drinks, 'Midst clinking glasses, and 'midst brandished spoons, The daily light of the gazettes flashed full On my dim eyes. I saw and recognized The public joy, and the felicity Of human destiny. The lofty state I saw, and value of all human things; Our mortal pathway strewed with flowers; I saw How naught displeasing here below endures. Nor less I saw the studies and the works Stupendous, wisdom, virtue, knowledge deep Of this our age. From far Morocco to Cathay, and from the Poles unto the Nile, From Boston unto Goa, on the track Of flying Fortune, emulously panting, The empires, kingdoms, dukedoms of the earth I saw, now clinging to her waving locks, Now to the end of her encircling boa. Beholding this, and o'er the ample sheets Profoundly meditating, I became Of my sad blunder, and myself, ashamed.

The age of gold the spindles of the Fates, O Gino, are evolving. Every sheet, In each variety of speech and type, The splendid promise to the world proclaims, From every quarter. Universal love, And iron roads, and commerce manifold, Steam, types, and cholera, remotest lands, Most distant nations will together bind; Nor need we wonder if the pine or oak Yield milk and honey, or together dance Unto the music of the waltz. So much The force already hath increased, both of Alembics, and retorts, and of machines, That vie with heaven in working miracles, And will increase, in times that are to come: For, evermore, from better unto best, Without a pause, as in the past, the race Of Shem, and Ham, and Japhet will progress.

And yet, on acorns men will never feed, Unless compelled by hunger; never will Hard iron lay aside. Full oft, indeed, They gold and silver will despise, bills of Exchange preferring. Often, too, the race Its generous hands with brothers' blood will stain, With fields of carnage filling Europe, and The other shore of the Atlantic sea, The new world, that the old still nourishes, As often as it sends its rival bands Of armed adventurers, in eager quest Of pepper, cinnamon, or other spice, Or sugar-cane, aught that ministers Unto the universal thirst for gold. True worth and virtue, modesty and faith, And love of justice, in whatever land, From public business will be still estranged, Or utterly humiliated and O'erthrown; condemned by Nature still, To sink unto the bottom. Insolence And fraud, with mediocrity combined, Will to the surface ever rise, and reign. Authority and strength, howe'er diffused, However concentrated, will be still Abused, beneath whatever name concealed, By him who wields them; this the law by Fate And nature written first, in adamant: Nor can a Volta with his lightnings, nor A Davy cancel it, nor England with Her vast machinery, nor this our age With all its floods of Leading Articles. The good man ever will be sad, the wretch Will keep perpetual holiday; against All lofty souls both worlds will still be armed Conspirators; true honor be assailed By calumny, and hate, and envy; still The weak will be the victim of the strong; The hungry man upon the rich will fawn, Beneath whatever form of government, Alike at the Equator and the Poles; So will it be, while man on earth abides, And while the sun still lights him on his way.

These signs and tokens of the ages past Must of necessity their impress leave Upon our brightly dawning age of gold: Because society from Nature still Receives a thousand principles and aims, Diverse, discordant; which to reconcile, No wit or power of man hath yet availed, Since first our race, illustrious, was born; Nor will avail, or treaty or gazette, In any age, however wise or strong. But in things more important, how complete, Ne'er seen, till now, will be our happiness! More soft, from day to day, our garments will Become, of woollen or of silk. Their rough Attire the husbandman and smith will cast Aside, will swathe in cotton their rough hides, And with the skins of beavers warm their backs. More serviceable, more attractive, too, Will be our carpets and our counterpanes, Our curtains, sofas, tables, and our chairs; Our beds, and their attendant furniture, Will a new grace unto our chambers lend; And dainty forms of kettles and of pans, On our dark kitchens will their lustre shed. From Paris unto Calais, and from there To London, and from there to Liverpool, More rapid than imagination can Conceive, will be the journey, nay the flight; While underneath the ample bed of Thames, A highway will be made, immortal work, That should have been completed, years ago. Far better lighted, and perhaps as safe, At night, as now they are, will be the lanes And unfrequented streets of Capitals; Perhaps, the main streets of the smaller towns. Such privileges, such a happy lot, Kind heaven reserves unto the coming race.

How fortunate are they, whom, as I write, Naked and whimpering, in her arms receives The midwife! They those longed-for days may hope To see, when, after careful studies we Shall know, and every nursling shall imbibe That knowledge with the milk of the dear nurse, How many hundred-weight of salt, and how Much flesh, how many bushels, too, of flour, His native town in every month consumes; How many births and deaths in every year The parish priest inscribes: when by the aid Of mighty steam, that, every second, prints Its millions, hill and dale, and ocean's vast Expanse, e'en as we see a flock of cranes AËrial, that suddenly the day obscure, will with Gazettes be overrun; Gazettes, of the great Universe the life And soul, sole fount of wisdom and of wit, To this, and unto every coming age!

E'en as a child, who carefully constructs, Of little sticks and leaves, an edifice, In form of temple, palace, or of tower; And, soon as he beholds the work complete, The impulse feels, the structure to destroy, Because the self-same sticks and leaves he needs, To carry out some other enterprise; So Nature every work of hers, however It may delight us with its excellence, No sooner sees unto perfection brought, Than she proceeds to pull it all to pieces, For other structures using still the parts. And vainly seeks the human race, itself Or others from the cruel sport to save, The cause of which is hidden from its sight Forever, though a thousand means it tries, With skilful hand devising remedies: For cruel Nature, child invincible, Our efforts laughs to scorn, and still its own Caprices carries out, without a pause, Destroying and creating, for its sport. And hence, a various, endless family Of ills incurable and sufferings Oppresses the frail mortal, doomed to death Irreparably; hence a hostile force, Destructive, smites him from within, without, On every side, perpetual, e'en from The day of birth, and wearies and exhausts, Itself untiring, till he drops at last, By the inhuman mother crushed, and killed. Those crowning miseries, O gentle friend, Of this our mortal life, old age and death, E'en then commencing, when the infant lip The tender breast doth press, that life instils, This happy nineteenth century, I think, Can no more help, than could the ninth, or tenth, Nor will the coming ages, more than this. Indeed, if we may be allowed to call The truth by its right name, no other than Supremely wretched must each mortal be, In every age, and under every form Of government, and walk and mode of life; By nature hopelessly incurable, Because a universal law hath so Decreed, which heaven and earth alike obey. And yet the lofty spirits of our age A new discovery have made, almost Divine; for, though they cannot make A single person happy on the earth, The man forgetting, they have gone in quest Of universal happiness, and this, Forsooth, have found so easily, that out Of many wretched individuals, They can a happy, joyful people make. And at this miracle, not yet explained By quarterly reviews, or pamphlets, or Gazettes, the common herd in wonder smile.

O minds, O wisdom, insight marvellous Of this our passing age! And what profound Philosophy, what lessons deep, O Gino, In matters more sublime and recondite, This century of thine and mine will teach To those that follow! With what constancy, What yesterday it scorned, upon its knees To-day it worships, and will overthrow To-morrow, merely to pick up again The fragments, to the idol thus restored, To offer incense on the following day! How estimable, how inspiring, too, This unanimity of thought, not of The age alone, but of each passing year! How carefully should we, when we our thought With this compare, however different From that of next year it may be, at least Appearance of diversity avoid! What giant strides, compared with those of old, Our century in wisdom's school has made!