Life and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and feel, is an astonishing thing.  The mist of familiarity obscures from us the wonder of our being.  We are struck with admiration at some of its transient modifications, but it is itself the great miracle.  What are changes of empires, the wreck of dynasties, with the opinions which supported them; what is the birth and the extinction of religious and of political systems to life?  What are the revolutions of the globe which we inhabit, and the operations of the elements of which it is composed, compared with life?  What is the universe of stars, and suns, of which this inhabited earth is one, and their motions, and their destiny, compared with life?  Life, the great miracle, we admire not, because it is so miraculous.  It is well that we are thus shielded by the familiarity of what is at once so certain and so unfathomable, from an astonishment which would otherwise absorb and overawe the functions of that which is its object.

If any artist, I do not say had executed, but had merely conceived in his mind the system of the sun, and the stars, and planets, they not existing, and had painted to us in words, or upon canvas, the spectacle now afforded by the nightly cope of heaven, and illustrated it by the wisdom of astronomy, great would be our admiration.  Or had he imagined the scenery of this earth, the mountains, the seas, and the rivers; the grass, and the flowers, and the variety of the forms and masses of the leaves of the woods, and the colours which attend the setting and the rising sun, and the hues of the atmosphere, turbid or serene, these things not before existing, truly we should have been astonished, and it would not have been a vain boast to have said of such a man, ’Non merita nome di creatore, se non Iddio ed il Poeta.’  But now these things are looked on with little wonder, and to be conscious of them with intense delight is esteemed to be the distinguishing mark of a refined and extraordinary person.  The multitude of men care not for them.  It is thus with Life—­that which includes all.

What is life?  Thoughts and feelings arise, with or without our will, and we employ words to express them.  We are born, and our birth is unremembered, and our infancy remembered but in fragments; we live on, and in living we lose the apprehension of life.  How vain is it to think that words can penetrate the mystery of our being!  Rightly used they may make evident our ignorance to ourselves, and this is much.  For what are we?  Whence do we come? and whither do we go?  Is birth the commencement, is death the conclusion of our being?  What is birth and death?

The most refined abstractions of logic conduct to a view of life, which, though startling to the apprehension, is, in fact, that which the habitual sense of its repeated combinations has extinguished in us.  It strips, as it were, the painted curtain from this scene of things.  I confess that I am one of those who are unable to refuse my assent to the conclusions of those philosophers who assert that nothing exists but as it is perceived.