On this earth at least man is a kind of divine lieutenant,
the captain, the commander, the generalissimo of all living things.
Somehow, somewhere, there must be a sublime purpose to it all, because
it is dominated throughout by a sublime intelligence, an apparently
all-wise Providence. Somehow, somewhere, the spirit of man has a never
ending responsibility and an awe-inspiring, exalted destiny.
Whether this be true or not, and however, the scientific intellect may
be inclined to quibble with arguments and conclusions, there is
something inside of each and every one of us to a greater or less
extent, which makes us feel that this is so. This something within us,
which responds to such a feeling, is a function quite apart from the
intellect--the most highly developed intellects often have the least of
it; it is equally removed from the loves and hates, sympathies and
antipathies of our heart life; and equally far away from the perceptions
and appetites of our senses. It is the side of man's nature which for
the want of a better name, we call the soul.
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