The light and shade, the curious sense of body and identity, the greed that with perfect complaisance devours all things, The endless pride and outstretching of man, unspeakable joys and sorrows, The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees, and the wonders that fill each minute of time forever, What have you reckon’d them for, camerado? Have you reckon’d them for your trade or farm-work? or for the profits of your store? Or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman’s leisure, or a lady’s leisure?

Have you reckon’d that the landscape took substance and form that it might be painted in a picture? Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung? Or the attraction of gravity, and the great laws and harmonious combinations and the fluids of the air, as subjects for the savans? Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts? Or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy names? Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables, or agriculture itself?

Old institutions, these arts, libraries, legends, collections, and the practice handed along in manufactures, will we rate them so high? Will we rate our cash and business high? I have no objection, I rate them as high as the highest⁠—then a child born of a woman and man I rate beyond all rate.