There is no chance and no anarchy in the universe. All is system and gradation. Every God is there sitting in his sphere. The young mortal enters the hall of the firmament; there is he alone with them alone, they pouring on him benedictions and gifts, and beckoning him up to their thrones. On the instant, and incessantly, fall snowstorms of illusions. He fancies himself in a vast crowd which sways this way and that and whose movement and doings he must obey: he fancies himself poor, orphaned, insignificant. The mad crowd drives hither and thither, now furiously commanding this thing to be done, now that. What is he that should resist their will, and think or act for himself? Every moment new changes and new showers of deception to baffle and distract him. But when, by and by, for an instant, the air clears and the clouds lift a little, there are the gods still sitting around him on their thrones, they alone with him alone.