What remains? What oath now binds us? What last things have attested a final vow? Truth remains, by which a world remains. The same world? Was that a world? What were its excellences, its dignities, but that, for every jewel found rare, a prattle spread, of jealous baubles claiming kinship—and which its consanguinity in confusion were? There remains a world, as, after clamour’s obstinate exhaustion, a sobered murmur hangs. And in that world? The count is homely: these are not nameless multitudes.