13.  In like manner, there is throughout nature something mocking, something that leads us on and on, but arrives nowhere, keeps no faith with us.  All promise outruns the performance.  We live in a system of approximations.  Every end is prospective of some other end, which is also temporary; a round and final success nowhere.  We are encamped in nature, not domesticated.  Hunger and thirst lead us on to eat and to drink; but bread and wine, mix and cook them how you will, leave us hungry and thirsty, after the stomach is full.  It is the same with all our arts and performances.  Our music, our poetry, our language itself are not satisfactions, but suggestions.  The hunger for wealth, which reduces the planet to a garden, fools the eager pursuer.  What is the end sought?  Plainly to secure the ends of good sense and beauty, from the intrusion of deformity or vulgarity of any kind.  But what an operose[521] method!  What a train of means to secure a little conversation!  This palace of brick and stone, these servants, this kitchen, these stables, horses and equipage, this bank-stock, and file of mortgages; trade to all the world, country-house and cottage by the water-side, all for a little conversation, high, clear, and spiritual!  Could it not be had as well by beggars on the highway?  No, all these things came from successive efforts of these beggars to remove friction from the wheels of life, and give opportunity.  Conversation, character, were the avowed ends; wealth was good as it appeased the animal cravings, cured the smoky chimney, silenced the creaking door, brought friends together in a warm and quiet room, and kept the children and the dinner-table in a different apartment.  Thought, virtue, beauty, were the ends; but it was known that men of thought and virtue sometimes had the headache, or wet feet, or could lose good time, whilst the room was getting warm in winter days.  Unluckily, in the exertions necessary to remove these inconveniences, the main attention has been diverted to this object; the old aims have been lost sight of, and to remove friction has come to be the end.  That is the ridicule of rich men, and Boston, London, Vienna, and now the governments generally of the world, are cities and governments of the rich, and the masses are not men, but poor men, that is, men who would be rich; this is the ridicule of the class, that they arrive with pains and sweat and fury nowhere; when all is done, it is for nothing.  They are like one who has interrupted the conversation of a company to make his speech, and now has forgotten what he went to say.  The appearance strikes the eye everywhere of an aimless society, of aimless nations.  Were the ends of nature so great and cogent, as to exact this immense sacrifice of men?