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ter all the zones of the world. Loves he the short day or the long—he may choose. Would he try days without nights, or nights without days—he may prefer, and be gratified.—And every day is a little year on its own account—a wheel within a wheel. From darkness and repose pours up the gray light of the morning, through a pageant of clouds designed for this day only, and amid the hum of living nature the flowers open their dewy eyes. Slowly the day-summer rises to its tropical noon, and slowly it goes down into the artic-darkness, beyond the western waves. Then darkness deepens, and lo! the auroral stars, that wax and wane through the cold, delicious umbrage of the night, while, hour by hour, new constellations glad the feasting eye with their olden silver service—an heir-loom of the world.—And man, who beholds all this, and partly for whose pleasure all these were created, has his ecliptic also, and his wheel within a wheel. Through the windings of recorded civilization—through the golden ages that harden into the iron and the brass, and then refine to gold again,—through the dark ages and the bright,—through reigns of terror and reigns of Saturn,—through reigns of philosophy and reigns of madness, man has not been twice alike from the hour of his birth. We are older every moment; we have new accessions of experience, new styles of consciousness, and we see things in a different light. "All the world's a stage"—a stage with new proscenium and decorations nightly, and a change of play: there is many a spicy, quarrelsome recast, and an audience and actors whom we never saw before.