[I subjoin here another passage from my before-mentioned discourse.

’Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper.  To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little.  Behold the whole huge earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown-paper wrapper!

’Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on horseback or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the Indian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop all the famous performers from the four quarters of the globe.  Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny puppets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon my desk and officiates as showman.  Now I can truly see how little and transitory is life.  The earth appears almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar microscope of the imagination must be brought to bear in order to make out anything distinctly.  That animalcule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just landed on the coast of England.  That other, in the gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no interference from him in the present alarming juncture.  At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of something in motion, is an immense mass-meeting.  Look sharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his mandibles in an excited manner.  That is the great Mr. Soandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and irrepressible cheers.  That infinitesimal creature, upon whom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosopher, expounding to a select audience their capacity for the Infinite.  That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and dust is a revolution.  That speck there is a reformer, just arranging the lever with which he is to move the world.  And lo, there creeps forward the shadow of a skeleton that blows one breath between its grinning teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off the slippery stage into the dark Beyond.

’Yes, the little show-box has its solemner suggestions.  Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old man, who lays down a scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he shifts the scenes.  There, too, in the dim background, a weird shape is ever delving.  Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from christening.  Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infinities (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of dust is enough to cover and silence forever.  Nay, we see the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, that they are lying in wait for spectator also.