There is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.

Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.

But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.

I accept reality and dare not question it.

Note, to-day, an instructive, curious spectacle and conflict. Science, (twin, in its fields, of Democracy in its)—Science, testing absolutely all thoughts, all works, has already burst well upon the world—a sun, mounting, most illuminating, most glorious—surely never again to set. But against it, deeply entrench'd, holding possession, yet remains, (not only through the churches and schools, but by imaginative literature, and unregenerate poetry,) the fossil theology of the mythic-materialistic, superstitious, untaught and credulous, fable-loving, primitive ages of humanity.

Every hour of every day is an unspeakably perfect miracle.