than go to heaven in the fancy car of an
excursion train and breathe a malaria all the way.

The very simplicity and nakedness of man's life in the primitive ages
imply this advantage, at least, that they left him still but a sojourner
in nature. When he was refreshed with food and sleep, he contemplated
his journey again. He dwelt, as it were, in a tent in this world, and
was either threading the valleys, or crossing the plains, or climbing
the mountain-tops. But lo! men have become the tools of their tools. The
man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is become a
farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper. We
now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and
forgotten heaven. We have adopted Christianity merely as an improved
method of agriculture. We have built for this world a family mansion,
and for the next a family tomb. The best works of art are the expression
of man's struggle to free himself from this condition, but the effect
of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that higher
state to be forgotten. There is actually no place in this village for a
work of fine art, if any had come down to us, to stand, for our lives,
our houses and streets, furnish no proper pedestal for it. There is not
a nail to hang a picture on, nor a shelf to receive the bust of a hero
or a saint. When I consider how our houses are built and paid for, or
not paid for, and their internal economy managed and sustained, I wonder
that the floor does not give way under the visitor while he is admiring
the gewgaws upon the mantelpiece, and let him through into the cellar,
to some solid and honest though earthy foundation. I cannot but perceive
that this so-called rich and refined life is a thing jumped at, and I
do not get on in the enjoyment of the fine arts which adorn it, my
attention being wholly occupied with the jump; for I remember that the
greatest genuine leap, due to human muscles alone, on record, is that of
certain wandering Arabs, who are said to have cleared twenty-five feet
on level ground. Without factitious support, man is sure to come to
earth again beyond that distance. The first question which I am tempted
to put to the proprietor of such great impropriety is, Who bolsters
you? Are you one of the ninety-seven who fail, or the three who succeed?
Answer me these questions, and then perhaps I may look at your bawbles
and find them ornamental. The