We cannot glean from these incidental expressions, whether it brought them any steady comfort, or sensibly affected their happiness.
Thus, for four thousand years, the soul of man dashed its wings against the prison-bars of time, peering into the night through the cold, relentless gratings for some fugitive ray of the existence of which it had such strong and sleepless presentiment.

It is a mystery.

It may seem irreverent to approach it even with a conjecture.

Human reason should be humble and silent before it, and close its questioning lips.

It may not, however, transcend its prerogative to say meekly, _perhaps_.