"A man is supposed to improve by going out into the 'World', by 
      visiting 'London'. Artificial man does; he extends with his 
      sphere; but, alas! that sphere is microscopic; it is formed of 
      minutiae, and he surrenders his genuine vision to the artist, in 
      order to embrace it in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute, even 
      to barren and inhuman pruriency; while his mental become 
      proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the Man of Mind: he who is 
      placed in the sphere of Nature and of God, might be a mock at 
      Tattersall's and Brooks's, and a sneer at St. James's: he would 
      certainly be swallowed alive by the first 'Pizarro' that crossed 
      him:--But when he walks along the river of Amazons; when he rests 
      his eye on the unrivalled Andes; when he measures the long and 
      watered savannah; or contemplates, from a sudden promontory, the 
      distant, vast Pacific--and feels himself a freeman in this vast 
      theatre, and commanding each ready produced fruit of this 
      wilderness, and each progeny of this stream--his exultation is not 
      less than imperial. He is as gentle, too, as he is great: his 
      emotions of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of sentiment; 
      for he says, 'These were made by a good Being, who, unsought by 
      me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He becomes at once a child and 
      a king. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues, and from 
      hence he acts, and he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially: 
      his mind in himself is also in his God; and therefore he loves, 
      and therefore he soars."--From the notes upon "The Hurricane," a 
      Poem, by William Gilbert.
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        The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the above quotation, 
      which, though from a strange book, is one of the finest passages 
      of modern English prose.