but where it is:  with all my heart; only, WHERE is it?  Be not the slave of Words:  is not the Distant, the Dead, while I love it, and long for it, and mourn for it, Here, in the genuine sense, as truly as the floor I stand on?  But that same WHERE, with its brother WHEN, are from the first the master-colors of our Dream-grotto; say rather, the Canvas (the warp and woof thereof) whereon all our Dreams and Life-visions are painted.  Nevertheless, has not a deeper meditation taught certain of every climate and age, that the WHERE and WHEN, so mysteriously inseparable from all our thoughts, are but superficial terrestrial adhesions to thought; that the Seer may discern them where they mount up out of the celestial EVERYWHERE and FOREVER:  have not all nations conceived their God as Omnipresent and Eternal; as existing in a universal HERE, an everlasting Now?  Think well, thou too wilt find that Space is but a mode of our human Sense, so likewise Time; there is no Space and no Time:  WE are—­we know not what;—­light-sparkles floating in the ether of Deity!

“So that this so solid-seeming World, after all, were but an air-image, our ME the only reality:  and Nature, with its thousand-fold production and destruction, but the reflex of our own inward Force, the ’phantasy of our Dream;’ or what the Earth-Spirit in Faust names it, the living visible Garment of God:—­

    “’In Being’s floods, in Action’s storm,
    I walk and work, above, beneath,
    Work and weave in endless motion! 
          Birth and Death,
          An infinite ocean;
          A seizing and giving
          The fire of Living: 
    ’Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply,
    And weave for God the Garment thou seest Him by.’

Of twenty millions that have read and spouted this thunder-speech of the Erdgeist, are there yet twenty units of us that have learned the meaning thereof?

“It was in some such mood, when wearied and fordone with these high speculations, that I first came upon the question of Clothes.  Strange enough, it strikes me, is this same fact of there being Tailors and Tailored.  The Horse I ride has his own whole fell:  strip him of the girths and flaps and extraneous tags I have fastened round him, and the noble creature is his own sempster and weaver and spinner; nay his own boot-maker, jeweller, and man-milliner; he bounds free through the valleys, with a perennial rain-proof court-suit on his body; wherein warmth and easiness of fit have reached perfection; nay, the graces also have been considered, and frills and fringes, with gay variety of color, featly appended, and ever in the right place, are not wanting.  While I—­good Heaven!—­ have thatched myself over with the dead fleeces of sheep, the bark of vegetables, the entrails of worms, the hides of oxen or seals, the felt of furred beasts; and walk abroad a moving Rag-screen, overheaped with shreds and tatters raked