I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-Life to spell; And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell.” If these places are but states of consciousness, it of course must follow that we make our own heaven and hell, and it is, therefore, the right and duty of each, not to wait for some dreamy mirage born of old superstition, unmanly fear, and unfounded faith, but to take the present, fleeting moment, and with it do the best we can. This stanza may seem painfully sad and hopeless, but it contains the true philosophy of life: Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End! Not only is the present the all important time, but the realities know nothing except the present. There is no moment but the one that’s here,—the past is gone, the next one has not come, and he that misses the present loses all there is. Some for the Glories of This World, and some Sigh for the Prophet’s paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! As to how the pleasures of life are to be found, men never have agreed and never can. Our view of pleasure, like our feelings and emotions, grows from the condition of our being, and is the result of causes that we did not create and cannot control. Some there are who look at all the strife and suffering of the world, and feel no kinship to the great, surging mass that moves and feels and thinks. These walk silently along the path alone, oblivious alike to the pleasures and the sufferings of the world around. Others there are whose souls are so sensitive that they feel the joys and sorrows of the world, and who cannot separate their lives from all the sentient, moving things that teem and swarm upon the earth. Both can and must feel those appetites and desires that are ever incident to being. Without these, nature could neither bring life upon the earth nor sustain it when it came. It is in the balancing of these feelings that nature almost necessarily makes the imperfect man. Unless the emotions and desires are sufficiently developed, the creature is cold, impassive, pulseless clay. If too much developed, it runs the risk of sacrificing the higher emotions and more lasting enjoyments to the fleeting, sensual pleasures of the hour. Almost every person must stand upon one side or the other of this shadowy line, which no man can see, and which he would have no power to cross, even if he knew where it ran.