itrous oxide; and the fisherman dripping all day over a cold
pond, the switchman at the railway intersection, the farmer in the field,
the negro in the rice-swamp, the fop in the street, the hunter in the
woods, the barrister with the jury, the belle at the ball, all ascribe a
certain pleasure to their employment, which they themselves give it.
Health and appetite impart the sweetness to sugar, bread, and meat. We
fancy that our civilization has got on far, but we still come back to our
primers.

We live by our imaginations, by our admirations, by our sentiments. The
child walks amid heaps of illusions, which he does not like to have
disturbed. The boy, how sweet to him is his fancy! how dear the story of
barons and battles! What a hero he is, whilst he feeds on his heroes! What
a debt is his to imaginative books! He has no better friend or influence
than Scott, Shakespeare, Plutarch, and Homer. The man lives to other
objects, but who dares affirm that they are more real? Even the prose of
the streets is full of refractions. In the life of the dreariest alderman,
fancy enters into all details, and colors them with rosy hue. He imitates
the air and actions of people whom he admires, and is raised in his own
eyes. He pays a debt quicker to a rich man than to a poor man. He wishes
the bow and compliment of some leader in the state, or in society; weighs
what he says; perhaps he never comes nearer to him for that, but dies at
last better contented for this amusement of his eyes and his fancy.

The world rolls, the din of life is never hushed. In London, in Paris, in
Boston, in San Francisco, the carnival, the masquerade is at its height.
Nobody drops his domino. The unities, the fictions of the piece, it would
be an impertinence to break. The chapter of fascinations is very long.
Great is paint; nay, God is the painter; and we rightly accuse the critic
who destroys too many illusions. Society does not love its unmaskers. It
was wittily, if somewhat bitterly, said by D'Alembert, "qu'un etat de
vapeur etait un etat tres facheux, parcequ'il nous faisait voir les choses
comme elles sont." I find men victims of illusion in all parts of life.
Children, youths, adults, and old men, all are led by one bauble or
another. Yoganidra, the goddess of illusion, Proteus, or Momus, or Gylfi's
Mocking,--for the Power has many names,--is stronger than the Titans,
stronger than Apollo. Few have overheard the gods, or surprised their
secret. L