crown of a great mental work created by
unknown men about him, and receding back
from him through long vistas of distance.
Without them he would not have had his material
to deal with. Even the poet requires
innumerable poetasters to feed upon. He is the
essence of the poetic power of his time, and
of the times before him. It is impossible to
separate an individual of any species from
his kin.

If, therefore, instead of accepting the
unknown as unknowable, men were _with one
accord_ to turn their thoughts towards it, those
Golden Gates would not remain so inexorably
shut. It does but need a strong hand to push
them open. The courage to enter them is the
courage to search the recesses of one's own
nature without fear and without shame. In
the fine part, the essence, the flavor of the
man, is found the key which unlocks those
great Gates. And when they open, what is it
that is found?

Voices here and there in the long silence
of the ages speak to answer that question.
Those who have passed through have left
words behind them as legacies to others of
their kin. In these words we can find definite
indications of what is to be looked for beyond