So Much Of Truth, Only Under An

Let Each Become All That He Was Created Capable Of Being.

For, Strictly Considered, What Is All Knowledge Too But Recorded Experience, And A Product Of History; Of Which, Therefore, Reasoning And Belief, No Less Than Action And Passion, Are Essential Materials?

This London City, With All Of Its Houses, Palaces, Steam-engines, Cathedrals, And Huge Immeasurable Traffic An Tumult, What Is It But A Thought, But Millions Of Thoughts Made Into One-a Huge Immeasurable Spirit Of A Thought, Embodied In Brick, In Iron, Smoke, Dust, Palaces, Parliaments, Hackney Coaches, Katherine Docks, And The Rest Of It! Not A Brick Was Made But Some Man Had To Think Of The Making Of That Brick.

There Is A Perennial Nobleness, And Even Sacredness, In Work. Were He Never So Benighted, Forgetful Of His High Calling, There Is Always Hope In A Man That Actually And Earnestly Works: In Idleness Alone There Is Perpetual Despair.

The Builder Of This Universe Was Wise, He Plann'd All Souls, All Systems, Planets, Particles: The Plan He Shap'd All Worlds And Æons By, Was-heavens!-was Thy Small Nine-and-thirty Articles!