ABSTRACT
In this chapter, the author look for some reward of the people endeavors and are disappointed; not success, not happiness, not even peace of conscience, crowns their ineffectual efforts to do well. There seems no substance to this solid globe on which the people stamp: nothing but symbols and ratios. Meanwhile the people rotatory island loaded with viticidal life, and more drenched with blood, both animal and vegetable, than ever mutinied ship, scuds through space with unimaginable speed, and turns alternate cheeks to the reverberation of a blazing world, ninety million miles away. Man is indeed marked for failure in his efforts to do right. The browsers, the biters, the barkers, the hairy coats of field and forest, the squirrel in the oak. And as the people dwell, they living things, in their isle of terror and under the imminent hand of death.
