ife, that there is
something of humanity in all, and in every particular. But this theory
makes nature foreign to me, and does not account for that
consanguinity which we acknowledge to it.

Let it stand, then, in the present state of our knowledge, merely as a
useful introductory hypothesis, serving to apprize us of the eternal
distinction between the soul and the world.

But when, following the invisible steps of thought, we come to
inquire, Whence is matter? and Whereto? many truths arise to us out
of the recesses of consciousness. We learn that the highest is present
to the soul of man, that the dread universal essence, which is not
wisdom, or love, or beauty, or power, but all in one, and each
entirely, is that for which all things exist, and that by which they are;
that spirit creates; that behind nature, throughout nature, spirit is
present; one and not compound, it does not act upon us from without,
that is, in space and time, but spiritually, or through ourselves:
therefore, that spirit, that is, the Supreme Being, does not build up
nature around us, but puts it forth through us, as the life of the tree
puts forth new branches and leaves through the pores of the old. As
a plant upon the earth, so a man rests upon the bosom of God; he is
nourished by unfailing fountains, and draws, at his need,
inexhaustible power. Who can set bounds to the possibilities of man?
Once inhale the upper air, being admitted to behold the absolute
natures of justice and truth, and we learn that man has access to the
entire mind of the Creator, is himself the creator in the finite. This
view, which admonishes me where the sources of wisdom and
power lie, and points to virtue as to

"The golden key
Which opes the palace of eternity,"

carries upon its face the highest certificate of truth, because it
animates me to create my own world through the purification of my
soul.

The world proceeds from the same spirit as the body of man. It is a
remoter and inferior incarnation of God, a projection of God in the
unconscious. But it differs from the body in one important respect. It
is not, like that, now subjected to the human will. Its serene order is
inviolable by us. It is, therefore, to us, the present expositor of the
divine mind. It is a fixed point whereby we may measure our
departure. As we degenerate, the contrast between us and our house
is more evident. We are as much strangers in nature, as we are aliens
fro