is regulated. But above all he is the microcosm, the tiny percipient centre upon which the immense cosmic circle focusses itself as the sun upon a burning-glass—and he is not shrivelled up by the miracle! Other creatures (he notes) share his sensations; but, so far as he can discover, not his intelligence—or, if at all, in no degree worth measuring. So far as he can detect, he is not only an actor in the grand cosmic pageant, but the sole intelligent spectator. As a poor Welsh parson, Thomas Traherne, wrote of the small town of his childhood:—

CONTENTS

The streets were mine, the temple was mine, the people were mine, their clothes and gold and silver were mine, as much as their sparkling eyes, their skins and ruddy faces. The skies were mine, and so were the sun and moon and stars; and all the world was mine, and I the only spectator and enjoyer of it....

CONTENTS

But little did the infant dream

That all the treasures of the world were by;

And that himself was so the cream

And crown of all which round about did lie.

Yet thus it was: the Gem,

The Diadem,

The ring enclosing all

That stood upon this earthly ball,

The heavenly Eye,

Much wider than the sky

Wherein they all included were,

The glorious soul that was the King,

Made to possess them, did appear

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