Do but perceive that we are coming to philosophy, the stride toward it will be a giant's--a century a day.

And imagine the celestial refreshment of having a pure decency in the place of sham; real flesh; a soul born active, wind-beaten, but ascending.

Honourable will fiction then appear; honourable, a fount of life, an aid to life, quick with our blood.

Why, when you behold it you love it--and you will not encourage it ?--or only when presented by dead hands?
Worse than that alternative dirty drab, your recurring rose-pink is rebuked by hideous revelations of the filthy foul; for nature will force her way, and if you try to stifle her by drowning, she comes up, not the fairest part of her uppermost! Peruse your Realists--really your castigators for not having yet embraced Philosophy.

As she grows in the flesh when discreetly tended, nature is unimpeachable, flower-eke, yet not too decoratively a flower; you must have her with the stem, the thorns, the roots, and the fat bedding of roses.