the whole external world was tinged with the dimlyglorious aspect that is peculiar to the Hall of Fantasy；insomuch that it seemed practicable， at that very instant，to realize some plan for the perfection of mankind. But，alas！ if reformers would understand the sphere in whichtheir lot is cast， they must cease to look through picturedwindows. Yet they not only use this medium， but mistakeit for the whitest sunshine.
“Come，” said I to my friend， starting from a deep reverie，—“let us hasten hence， or I shall be tempted to make atheory—after which， there is little hope of any man.”
“Come hither， then，” answered he. “Here is one theory，that swallows up and annihilates all others.”
He led me to a distant part of the hall， where a crowdof deeply attentive auditors were assembled round anelderly man， of plain， honest， trustworthy aspect. With anearnestness that betokened the sincerest faith in his owndoctrine， he announced that the destruction of the worldwas close at hand.
“It is Father Miller himself！” exclaimed I.
“No less a man，” said my friend， “and observe howpicturesque a contrast between his dogma， and those ofthe reformers whom we have just glanced at. They lookfor the earthly perfection of mankind， and are formingschemes， which imply that the immortal spirit will beconnected with a physical nature， for innumerable agesof futurity. On the other hand， here comes good FatherMiller， and， with one puff of his relentless theory， scattersall their dreams like so many withered leaves upon theblast.”
“It is， perhaps， the only method of getting mankindout of the various perplexities， into which they havefallen，” I replied. “Yet I could wish that the world mightbe permitted to endure， until some great moral shallhave been evolved. A riddle is propounded. Where is thesolution？ The sphinx did not slay herself， until her riddlehad been guessed. Will it not be so with the world？ Now，if it should be burnt to-morrow morning， I am at a loss toknow what purpose will have been accomplished， or howthe universe will be wiser or better for our existence anddestruction.”
“We cannot tell what mighty truths may have beenembodied in act， through the existence of the globe andits inhabitants，” rejoined my companion. “Perhaps it maybe revealed to us， after the fall of the curtain over ourcatastrophe； or not impossibly， the whole drama， in whichwe are involuntary actors， may have been performed forthe instruction of another set of spectators. I cannotperceive that our own comprehension of it is at allessential to the matter. At any rate， while our view is soridiculously narrow and superficial， it would be absurd toargue the continuance of the world from the fact， that itseems to have existed hitherto in vain.”
“The poor old Earth，” murmured I. “She has faults enough，in all conscience； but I cannot bear to have her perish.”
“It is no great matter，” said my friend. “The happiest ofus has been weary of her， many a time and oft.”
“I doubt it，” answered I， pertinaciously； “the root ofhuman nature strikes down deep into this earthly soil； andit is but reluctantly that we submit to be transplanted，even for a higher cultivation in Heaven. I query whetherthe destruction of the earth would gratify any oneindividual； except， perhaps， some embarrassed man ofbusiness， whose notes fall due a day after the day ofdoom.”
Then， methought， I heard the expostulating cry of amultitude against the consummation， prophesied by FatherMiller. The lover wrestled with Providence for his foreshadowedbliss. Parents entreated that the earth’s span ofendurance might be prolonged by some seventy years， sothat their newborn infant should not be defrauded of hislife-time. A youthful poet murmured， because there wouldbe no posterity to recognize tile inspiration of his song.
