Don't you see how almost impossible it is to make them with any exactness, how entirely impossible to know anything about them unless made by yourself, when the least leaven of credulity, excited fancy, to say nothing of willing or careless imposture, spoils the whole loaf?
Beside, allowing the possibility of some clear glimpses into a higher state of being, what do we want of it now?
All around us lies what we neither understand nor use.

Our capacities, our instincts for this our present sphere, are but half developed.

Let us confine ourselves to that till the lesson be learned; let us be completely natural, before we trouble ourselves with the supernatural.
I never see any of these things but I long to get away and lie under a green tree, and let the wind blow on me.

There is marvel and charm enough in that for me.
_Free Hope._ And for me also.

Nothing is truer than the Wordsworthian creed, on which Carlyle lays such stress, that we need only look on the miracle of every day, to sate ourselves with thought and admiration every day.