AN ESSAY 
 
BY THE 
 
Reverend P.D. CAREY 
 
It is sunset, and the rose rays fall aslant the 
woodland ;  they trace patterns of wondrous wit-
chery on the velvet of the glade.  A ruddy glow ligh-
tens the marble leer of the all-glorious one, the 
child of Arcady, the ineffable Pan — Pan !  Pan !  Io 
Pan ! — before whom I lie prostrate with my robes 
careless and freeflung, so that the red warmth of 
Apollon burns on my live quivering flesh, as I lie