his bed of onions or patch of potatoes?  What is the scale to measure even mortal happiness?  What is the marketable value of friendship or of love?  What makes the dinner of herbs sometimes more refreshing than the stalled ox?  What is the material profit of a first love?  What is the value in tangible dollars and cents of a beautiful landscape, or a speaking picture, or a marble statue, or a living book, or the voice of eloquence, or the charm of earliest bird, or the smile of a friend, or the promise of immortality?  In what consisted the real glory of the country we are never weary of quoting,—­the land of Phidias and Pericles and Demosthenes?  Was it not in immaterial ideas, in patriotism, in heroism, in conceptions of ideal beauty, in speculations on the infinite and unattainable, in the songs which still inspire the minds of youth, in the expression which made marble live, in those conceptions of beauty and harmony which still give shape to the temples of Christendom?  Was Rome more glorious with her fine roads and tables of thuja-root, and Falernian wines, and oysters from the Lucrine Lake, and chariots of silver, and robes of purple and rings of gold,—­these useful blessings which are the pride of an Epicurean civilization?  And who gave the last support, who raised the last barrier, against that inundation of destructive pleasures in which some see the most valued fruits of human invention, but which proved a canker that prepared the way to ruin?  It was that pious Emperor who learned his wisdom from a slave, and who set a haughty defiance to all the grandeur and all the comforts of the highest position which earth could give, and spent his leisure hours in the quiet study of those truths which elevate the soul,—­ truths not taught by science or nature, but by communication with invisible powers.

Ah, what indeed is reality; what is the higher good; what is that which perishes never; what is that which assimilates man to Deity?  Is it houses, is it lands, is it gold and silver, is it luxurious couches, is it the practical utilitarian comforts that pamper this mortal body in its brief existence? or is it women’s loves and patriots’ struggles, and sages’ pious thoughts, affections, noble aspirations, Bethanies, the serenities of virtuous old age, the harmonies of unpolluted homes, the existence of art, of truth, of love; the hopes which last when sun and stars decay?  Tell us, ye women, what are realities to you,—­your carpets, your plate, your jewels, your luxurious banquets; or your husbands’ love, your friends’ esteem, your children’s reverence?  And ye, toiling men of business, what is really your highest joy,—­your piles of gold, your marble palaces; or the pleasures of your homes, the approbation of your consciences, your hopes of future bliss?  Yes, you are dreamers, like poets and philosophers, when you call yourselves pack-horses.  Even you are only sustained in labor by intangible rewards that you can neither see nor