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a web of many textures

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This is a funny old world, — a queer mosaic of combinations,
as multihued as the good dame's patch-work quilt
that was exhibited in the Fair; everybody sees this,
and in a spleeny spirit asks, “What 's the use?” Everything
seems to jump by opposites of feeling and impulse,
and clanging and jarring the big world goes
round, inharmonious and discordant, we think. We are
right among it, and it is through our want of faith that
it is discordant. It is a grand orchestra, the world, and


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all of us are engaged in playing in it, and we cannot
tell, as each sounds his note, its effect. It seems discordant
to us, but the Great Leader who notes its time
sees the harmony in it, sees the effect of the great
notes sounded by the maestros, and that of the tiny
efforts of the least, and recognizes in all the elements of
a perfect harmony. There is encouragement in this
faith, that, where in self-pride the performer takes upon
himself airs, his performance is no more valued in the
grand whole than the humblest second fiddle of them
all, who sleeps in a garret at night, poorly paid and
poorly fed. We find it hard to reconcile the difference
in compensation for performance, but leave that for the
great day of adjustment. A large balance may then be
due those who are less favored. What is the use? In
this view the use becomes apparent, and the world
spins down the “ringing grooves of time,” adding its
song to that of the spheres, which gave the first concert
in the grand academy of the universe.