It is getting to be one of my regular pleasures now, as I go up and down the world,--looking upon the man's body,--the little funny one that he thinks he has, and then stretching my soul and looking upon the one that he really has. When one considers what a man actually does, where he really lives, one sees very plainly that all that he has been allowed is a mere suggestion or hint of a body, a sort of central nerve or ganglion for his real self. A seed or spore of infinity, blown down on a star--held there by the grip, apparently, of Nothing--a human body is pathetic enough, looked at in itself. There is something indescribably helpless and wistful and reaching out and incomplete about it--a body made to pray with, perhaps, one might say, but not for action. All that it really comes to or is for, apparently, is a kind of light there is in it. But the sea is its footpath. The light that is in it is the same light that reaches down to the central fires of the earth. It flames upon heaven. Helpless and unfinished-looking as it is, when I look upon it, I have seen the animals slinking to their holes before it, and worshipping, or following the light that is in it. The great waters and the great lights flock to it--this beckoning and a prayer for a body, which the man has. I go into the printing room of a great newspaper. In a single flash of black and white the press flings down the world for him--birth, death, disgrace, honor and war and farce and love and death, sea and hills, and the days on the other side of the world. Before the dawn the papers are carried forth. They hasten on glimmering trains out through the dark. Soon the newsboys shrill in the streets--China and the Philippines and Australia, and East and West they cry--the voices of the nations of the earth, and in my soul I worship the body of the man. Have I not seen two trains full of the will of the body of the man meet at full speed in the darkness of the night? I have watched them on the trembling ground--the flash of light, the crash of power, ninety miles an hour twenty inches apart, ... thundering aisles of souls ... on into blackness, and in my soul I worship the body of the man.