gradations, within the little space of a few months and years, would not seem enough to have matured such an awful heroism. Surely the creature that thus lifts his voice, and defies all invisible power within the possibilities of infinity, challenging whatever unknown being may hear him, was not as yesterday a little child, that would tremble and cry at the approach of a diminutive reptile. But indeed it is heroism no longer, if he knows there is no God. The wonder then turns on the great process by which a man could grow to the immense intelligence that can know that there is no God. What ages and what lights are requisite for this attainment! This intelligence involves the very attributes of the Divinity, while a God is denied. For unless this man is omnipresent, unless he is at this moment in every place in the universe, he cannot know but there may be in some place manifestations of a Deity by which even he would be overpowered. If he does not know absolutely every agent in the universe, the one that he does not know may be God. If he is not in absolute possession of all the propositions that constitute universal truth, the one which he wants may be, that there is a God. If he does not know everything that has been done in the immeasurable ages that are past, some things may have been done by a God. Thus, unless he knows all things, that is, precludes another Deity by being one himself, he cannot know that the Being whose existence he rejects does not exist. And yet a man of ordinary age and intelligence may present himself to you with the avowal of being thus distinguished from the crowd!"

"I had one just flogging," says Coleridge. "When I was about thirteen I went to a shoemaker and begged him to take me as his apprentice. He, being an honest man, immediately brought me to Boyer, who got into a great rage, knocked me down, and even pushed Crispin rudely out of the room. Boyer asked me why I had made myself such a fool? to which I answered that I had a great desire to be a shoemaker, and that I hated the thought of being a clergyman. "Why so?' said he. Because, to tell you the truth, sir,' said I, I am an infidel!' For this, without more ado, Boyer flogged me, wisely, as I think, — soundly, as I know. Any whining or sermonizing would have gratified my vanity, and confirmed me in my absurdity; as it was, I was laughed at, and got heartily ashamed of my folly."

"It is one thing to see that a line is crooked, and another thing to be able to draw a straight one," says Conversation Sharpe. "It is not quite so easy to do good as those may imagine who never try." Says Montaigne, "Could my soul once take footing, I would not essay, but resolve; but it is always leaving and making trial." "Tis an exact and exquisite life that contains itself in due order in private. Every one may take a part in the farce, and assume the part of an honest man upon the stage; but within, and in his own bosom, where all things are lawful to us, all things concealed,—to be regular, that is the point. The next degree is to be so in one's house, in one's ordinary actions, for which one is accountable to none, and where there is no study or artifice." "We chiefly, who live private lives, not exposed to any

other view than our own, ought to have settled a pattern within ourselves, by which to try our actions." "Conscience," cries Sterne, "is not a law; no, God and reason made the law, and have placed conscience within you to determine."

How often our virtues and benefactions are but the effects of our vices and our crimes; and as often do our vices disguise themselves under the name of virtues. "We ought not," says Montaigne, "to honor with the name of duty that peevishness and inward discontent which spring from private interest and passion; nor call treacherous and malicious conduct courage. People give the name of zeal to their propensity to mischief and violence, though it is not the cause, but their interest, that inflames them. Miserable kind of remedy, to owe a man's health to his disease. The virtue of the soul does not consist in flying high, but walking orderly; its grandeur does not exercise itself in grandeur, but in mediocrity." The greatest man is great in matters of self-conduct; the wisest is wise in little matters of life; the one is never little, the other never foolish.

"The superior man," says Confucius, "does not wait till he sees things, to be cautious, nor till he hears things, to be apprehensive. There is nothing more visible than what is secret, and nothing more manifest than what is minute. Therefore, the superior man will watch over himself when he is alone. examines his heart that there may be nothing wrong there, and that he may have no cause for dissatisfaction with himself. That wherein he excels is simply his work which other men cannot see. Are you free

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from shame in your apartment, when you are exposed only to the light of heaven?

"Most men," says Alger, "live blindly to repeat a routine of drudgery and indulgence, without any deliberately chosen and maintained aims. Many live to outstrip their rivals, pursue their enemies, gratify their lusts, and make a display. Few live distinctly to develop the value of their being, know the truth, love their fellows, enjoy the beauty of the world, and aspire to God."

"Life is a series of surprises," says Emerson, "and would not be worth taking or keeping if it were not. God delights to isolate us every day, and hide from us the past and the future. We would look about us, but with grand politeness He draws down before us an impenetrable screen of purest sky. • You will not remember,' He seems to say, and you will not expect.'"

Goldsmith, in one of his delightful Chinese Letters, gives this illustration of the vanity and uncertainty of human judgment: "A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a piece which should please the whole world. When, therefore, he had drawn a picture, in which his utmost skill was exhausted, it was exposed in the public market-place, with directions at the bottom for every spectator to mark with a brush, which lay by, every limb and feature which seemed erroneous. The spectators came, and in general applauded; but each, willing to show his talent at criticism, marked whatever he thought proper. At evening, when the painter came, he was mortified to find the whole picture one uni

versal blot; not a single stroke that was not stigmatized with marks of disapprobation. Not satisfied with this trial, the next day he was resolved to try them in a different manner, and, exposing his picture as before, desired that every spectator would mark those beauties he approved or admired. The people complied; and the artist, returning, found his picture replete with the marks of beauty; every stroke that had been yesterday condemned now received the character of approbation."

Irving, in his Knickerbocker's New York, thus refers to the habit of criticising and complaining in the time of William the Testy: "Cobblers abandoned their stalls to give lessons on political economy; blacksmiths suffered their fires to go out while they stirred up the fires of faction; and even tailors, though said to be the ninth parts of humanity, neglected their own measures to criticise the measures of government. Strange! that the science of government, which seems to be so generally understood, should invariably be denied to the only ones called upon to exercise it. Not one of the politicians in question but, take his word for it, could have administered affairs ten times better than William the Testy."

Socrates used to say that although no man undertakes a trade he has not learned, even the meanest, yet every one thinks himself sufficiently qualified for the hardest of all trades, that of government.

"Whoever would aim directly at a cure of a public evil," says Montaigne," and would consider of it before he began, would be very willing to withdraw