From the beautiful recesses of private thought; from the experience
and hope of spirits which are withdrawing from all old forms, and
seeking in all that is new somewhat to meet their inappeasable
longings; from the secret confession of genius afraid to trust itself
to aught but sympathy; from the conversation of fervid and mystical
pietists; from tear-stained diaries of sorrow and passion; from the
manuscripts of young poets; and from the records of youthful taste
commenting on old works of art; we hope to draw thoughts and
feelings, which being alive can impart life.
And so with diligent hands and good intent we set down our Dial
on the earth. We wish it may resemble that instrument in its
celebrated happiness, that of measuring no hours but those of
sunshine. Let it be one cheerful rational voice amidst the din of
mourners and polemics. Or to abide by our chosen image, let it be
such a Dial, not as the dead face of a clock, hardly even such as the
Gnomon in a garden, but rather such a Dial as is the Garden itself,
in whose leaves and flowers and fruits the suddenly awakened sleeper
is instantly apprised not what part of dead time, but what state of
life and growth is now arrived and arriving.
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