et aside the ruin which Time has
wrought both upon the change and the record, levelling the cities and
temples of men, diminishing the shadows of the Pyramids, and rendering
more shadowy the names and memories of heroes,--obliterating even its
own ruin;--set aside this oblivion of Time, still there would be
hieroglyphics,--still to us all that comes from this abyss of Time
behind us, or from the abyss of Space around us, must be but dim and
evanescent imagery and empty reverberation of sound, except as, becoming
a part of our own life, by a new birth, it receives shape and
significance. Nothing can be unveiled to us till it is born of us. Thus
the _epoptae_ are both creators and interpreters. Strength of knowledge
and strength of purpose, lying at the foundation of our own nature,
become also the measure of our interpretation of all Nature. Therefore
in each successive cycle of human history, as we realize more completely
the great Ideal, our appreciation of the Past increases, and our hope of
the Future. The difference lies not in the _data_ of history, but in
what we make of the _data_.

We cannot see too clearly that the great problem of life, in Philosophy,
Art, or Religion, is essentially the same from the beginning. Like
Nature, indeed, it repeats itself under various external phases, in
different ages and under different skies. History whispers from her
antediluvian lips of a race of giants; so does the earth reveal mammoths
and stupendous forests. But the wonder neither of Man nor of Nature was
greater then than now. We say much, too, of Progress. But the progress
does not consist in a change of the fundamental problem of the race; we
have only learned to use our material so that we effect our changes more
readily, and write our record with a finer touch and in clearer outline.
The progress is in the facility and elaboration, and may be measured in
Space and Time; but the Ideal is ever the same and immeasurable. Homer
is hard to read; but when once you have read him you have read all
poetry. Or suppose that Orpheus, instead of striving with his mythic
brother Cheiron, were to engage in a musical contest with Mozart, and
you, reader? were to adjudge the prize. Undoubtedly you would give the
palm to Mozart. Not that Mozart is the better musician; the difficulty
is all in your ear, my friend. If you could only hear the nice
vibrations of the "golden shell," you might reverse your decision.

So in Religion; the cen