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- CHAPTER LXXV.
Time And Temples
In the oriental Pilgrimage of the pious old Purchas, and in the fine
old folio Voyages of Hakluyt, Thevenot, Ramusio, and De Bry, we read of
many glorious old Asiatic temples, very long in erecting. And veracious
Gaudentia di Lucca hath a wondrous narration of the time consumed in
rearing that mighty three-hundred-and-seventy-five- pillared Temple of
the Year, somewhere beyond Libya; whereof, the columns did signify
days, and all round fronted upon concentric zones of palaces, cross-cut
by twelve grand avenues symbolizing the signs of the zodiac, all
radiating from the sun-dome in their midst. And in that wild eastern
tale of his, Marco Polo tells us, how the Great Mogul began him a
pleasure-palace on so imperial a scale, that his grandson had much ado
to complete it.
But no matter for marveling all this: great towers take time to
construct.
And so of all else.
And that which long endures full-fledged, must have long lain in the
germ. And duration is not of the future, but of the past; and eternity
is eternal, because it has been, and though a strong new monument be
builded to-day, it only is lasting because its blocks are old as the
sun. It is not the Pyramids that are ancient, but the eternal granite
whereof they are made; which had been equally ancient though yet in the
quarry. For to make an eternity, we must build with eternities; whence,
the vanity of the cry for any thing alike durable and new; and the
folly of the reproach—Your granite hath come from the old-fashioned
hills. For we are not gods and creators; and the controversialists have
debated, whether indeed the All-Plastic Power itself can do more than
mold. In all the universe is but one original; and the very suns must
to their source for their fire; and we Prometheuses must to them for
ours; which, when had, only perpetual Vestal tending will keep alive.
But let us back from fire to store. No fine firm fabric ever yet grew
like a gourd. Nero’s House of Gold was not raised in a day; nor the
Mexican House of the Sun; nor the Alhambra; nor the Escurial; nor
Titus’s Amphitheater; nor the Illinois Mounds; nor Diana’s great
columns at Ephesus; nor Pompey’s proud Pillar; nor the Parthenon; nor
the Altar of Belus; nor Stonehenge; nor Solomon’s Temple; nor Tadmor’s
towers; nor Susa’s bastions; nor Persepolis’ pediments. Round and
round, the Moorish turret at Seville was not wound heavenward in the
revolution of a day; and from its first founding, five hundred years
did circle, ere Strasbourg’s great spire lifted its five hundred feet
into the air. No: nor were the great grottos of Elephanta hewn out in
an hour; nor did the Troglodytes dig Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave in a sun;
nor that of Trophonius, nor Antiparos; nor the Giant’s Causeway. Nor
were the subterranean arched sewers of Etruria channeled in a trice;
nor the airy arched aqueducts of Nerva thrown over their values in the
ides of a month. Nor was Virginia’s Natural Bridge worn under in a
year; nor, in geology, were the eternal Grampians upheaved in an age.
And who shall count the cycles that revolved ere earth’s interior
sedimentary strata were crystalized into stone. Nor Peak of Piko, nor
Teneriffe, were chiseled into obelisks in a decade; nor had Mount Athos
been turned into Alexander’s statue so soon. And the bower of
Artaxerxes took a whole Persian summer to grow; and the Czar’s Ice
Palace a long Muscovite winter to congéal. No, no: nor was the Pyramid
of Cheops masoned in a month; though, once built, the sands left by the
deluge might not have submerged such a pile. Nor were the broad boughs
of Charles’ Oak grown in a spring; though they outlived the royal
dynasties of Tudor and Stuart. Nor were the parts of the great Iliad
put together in haste; though old Homer’s temple shall lift up its
dome, when St. Peter’s is a legend. Even man himself lives months ere
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