time, in its contrast of the things which appear with the things that
abide.

"There is no chance and no anarchy in the Universe," says Emerson, "all
is system and gradation. Every god is there sitting in his sphere. The
young mortal enters the hall of the firmament; there he is alone with
them alone, they pronouncing on him benedictions and gifts, and
beckoning him up to their thrones. On the instant and incessantly fall
snow storms of illusions. He fancies himself in a vast crowd which sways
this way and that and whose movements and doings he must obey. He
fancies himself poor, orphaned, insignificant. The mad crowd drives
hither and thither, now furiously commanding this thing to be done, now
that. What is he that he should resist their will and think and act for
himself? Every moment new changes and new showers of deceptions to
baffle and distract him. And when, by and by, for an instant the air
clears and the cloud lifts a little, there are the gods still sitting
around him on their thrones--they alone with him alone."

--

The last paragraphs of this little essay were written within a huge
hotel of steel and stone in the heart of a bustling city, in the most
gracious of lands and under the bluest of skies. A great commercial city
it was, a wondrous city, full of all manner of men--eager, impulsive,
loving, enthusiastic men; men cunning and grasping, given over to all
"high, hard lust and wilful deed;" carefree, joyous men living in the
present and taking their chances for the future; men who have whistled
all the airs that fluttering birds and frolicking children have learned
to sing; workmen of all grades, quiet, courageous and self-respecting,
and weak, disgruntled and incapable; bright-eyed, clear-headed,