demand and supply--or of the wage-fund, or price-level, or
increments earned or unearned; and that the existence of personal
or public property may not prove the existence of God.

Emerson seems to use the great definite interests of humanity to
express the greater, indefinite, spiritual values--to fulfill
what he can in his realms of revelation. Thus, it seems that so
close a relation exists between his content and expression, his
substance and manner, that if he were more definite in the latter
he would lose power in the former,--perhaps some of those
occasional flashes would have been unexpressed--flashes that have
gone down through the world and will flame on through the ages--
flashes that approach as near the Divine as Beethoven in his most
inspired moments--flashes of transcendent beauty, of such
universal import, that they may bring, of a sudden, some intimate
personal experience, and produce the same indescribable effect
that comes in rare instances, to men, from some common sensation.
In the early morning of a Memorial Day, a boy is awakened by
martial music--a village band is marching down the street, and as
the strains of Reeves' majestic Seventh Regiment March come
nearer and nearer, he seems of a sudden translated--a moment of
vivid power comes, a consciousness of material nobility, an
exultant something gleaming with the possibilities of this life,
an assurance that nothing is impossible, and that the whole world
lies at his feet. But as the band turns the corner, at the
soldiers' monument, and the march steps of the Grand Army become
fainter and fainter, the boy's vision slowly vanishes--his
"world" becomes less and less probable--but the experience ever
lies within him in its reality. Later in life, the same boy hears
the Sabbath morning bell ringing out from the white steeple at