o Godliness:"--yet never, in any
country, saw I operative men worse washed, and, in a climate drenched
with the softest cloudwater, such a scarcity of baths!'--Alas,
Sauerteig, our 'operative men' are at present short even of potatoes:
what 'duty' can you prescribe to them?

Or let us give a glance at China. Our new friend, the Emperor there,
is Pontiff of three hundred million men; who do all live and work,
these many centuries now; authentically patronised by Heaven so far;
and therefore must have some 'religion' of a kind. This
Emperor-Pontiff has, in fact, a religious belief of certain Laws of
Heaven; observes, with a religious rigour, his 'three thousand
punctualities,' given out by men of insight, some sixty generations
since, as a legible transcript of the same,--the Heavens do seem to
say, not totally an incorrect one. He has not much of a ritual, this
Pontiff-Emperor; believes, it is likest, with the old Monks, that
'Labour is Worship.' His most public Act of Worship, it appears, is
the drawing solemnly at a certain day, on the green bosom of our
Mother Earth, when the Heavens, after dead black winter, have again
with their vernal radiances awakened her, a distinct red Furrow with
the Plough,--signal that all the Ploughs of China are to begin
ploughing and worshipping! It is notable enough. He, in sight of the
Seen and Unseen Powers, draws his distinct red Furrow there; saying,
and praying, in mute symbolism, so many most eloquent things!

If you ask this Pontiff, "Who made him? What is to become of him and
us?" he maintains a dignified reserve; waves his hand and
pontiff-eyes over the unfathomable deep of Heaven, the 'Tsien,' the
azure kingdoms of Infinitude; as if asking, "Is it doubtful that we
are right _well_ made? Can aught that is _wrong_ become of us?"--He
and his three hundred millions (it is their chief 'punctuality') visit
yearly the Tombs of their Fathers; each man the Tomb of his Father and
his Mother: alone there, in silence, with what of 'worship' or of
other thought there may be, pauses solemnly each man; the divine Skies
all silent over him; the divine Graves, and this divinest Grave, all
silent under him; the pulsings of his own soul, if he have any soul,
alone audible. Truly it may be a kind of worship! Truly, if a man
cannot get some glimpse into the Eternities, looking through this
portal,--through what other need he try it?

Our friend the Pontiff-Emperor permits cheerfully, though with