Land of lost gods and godlike men.

I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.

War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer?