The things we now esteem fixed shall, one by one, detach themselves like ripe fruit from our experience, and fall. The wi nd shall blow them none knows whither. The landscape, the figures, Boston, Lo ndon, are facts as fugitive as any institution past, or any whiff of mist or sm oke, and so is society, and so is the world. The soul looketh steadily forward s, creating a world before her, leaving worlds behind her. She has no dates, n or rites, nor persons, nor specialties nor men. The soul knows only the s oul; the web of events is the flowing robe in which she is clothed.
