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 mountains, whose heads are upreared from the floor of the great ocean Soul. Proclaiming man to be a world in miniature, they have, in their treatment of him and his. not only belied and stultified themselves, but have shown that, after all, he was to be classed with "all other worms of the dust"—a semi-voluntary automaton—a skip-jack, to be coaxed, wheedled and driven, just as circumstances might dictate and decree. Theoretically, to them, he is a God; practically, a mere machine, whose office and function it is to eat, drink, be merry, sleep, wake up, labor, and beget his kind—whose destiny, in turn, it is to repeat the same identical round, with perhaps a few trifling and unimportant variations—totally forgetful or unconscious of the fact, that when pronouncing him to be a microcosm, they were uttering a sentence brimfull of God's everlasting truth. Philosophers have a bad habit of saying one thing and meaning another; for while loudly declaring, they never yet have fairly believed, that howsoever vast the universes without may be, yet all and each of them grow diminutive and contracted when compared with those that exist within the Soul. Nay, they have never realized that all that has a being outside of man is met, mastered and overmatched by an infinite universe from within! Crime! folly!—what are they? Philosopher, answer thou me! "They are, they are—they are—well, I can hardly tell what they really are." I will tell you: these things frequently mark the career of the 'Progressed' man—never that of the developed or unfolded one—and in all cases are either the result of impulse, Spirit-obsession, or of a bad calculation. When