looms, or by the silent Arachnes that weave unrestingly in our Imagination?
Or, on the other hand, what is there that we cannot love; since all was
created by God?

"Happy he who can look through the Clothes of a Man (the woollen, and
fleshly, and official Bank-paper and State-paper Clothes) into the Man
himself; and discern, it may be, in this or the other Dread Potentate, a
more or less incompetent Digestive-apparatus; yet also an inscrutable
venerable Mystery, in the meanest Tinker that sees with eyes!"

For the rest, as is natural to a man of this kind, he deals much in the
feeling of Wonder; insists on the necessity and high worth of universal
Wonder; which he holds to be the only reasonable temper for the denizen of
so singular a Planet as ours. "Wonder," says he, "is the basis of Worship:
the reign of wonder is perennial, indestructible in Man; only at certain
stages (as the present), it is, for some short season, a reign _in partibus
infidelium_." That progress of Science, which is to destroy Wonder, and in
its stead substitute Mensuration and Numeration, finds small favor with
Teufelsdrockh, much as he otherwise venerates these two latter processes.

"Shall your Science," exclaims he, "proceed in the small chink-lighted, or
even oil-lighted, underground workshop of Logic alone; and man's mind
become an Arithmetical Mill, whereof Memory is the Hopper, and mere Tables
of Sines and Tangents, Codification, and Treatises of what you call
Political Economy, are the Meal? And what is that Science, which the
scientific head alone, were it screwed off, and (like the Doctor's in the
Arabian Tale) set in a basin to keep it alive, could prosecute without
shadow of a heart,--but one other of the mechanical and menial handicrafts,
for which the Scientific Head (having a Soul in it) is too noble an organ?
I mean that Thought without Reverence is barren, perhaps poisonous; at