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encompass, how fortunate it is that, if he knows little, he cares little also! We know nothing of the first principles,—we know not the foundation of a single fact; yet this seldom troubles us. The globe floats away in its atmosphere,—we feel no alarm. Generations come, and look about them, and depart mysteriously into the ground,—we all shall follow them,—yet do we plan, and dig, and dream, for the most part, with very little concern. We reproach one another's recklessness and extravagance, and follow his steps.—So divest man of this fleshly stupor that he should bethink himself continually of all that he really knows, and he would run into the wilderness, naked and mad.—We doubt not that there have been minds so bared from the bedozing influence of the flesh that they have at times stood almost against the actual,—men on whom the fact of existence and the miracle of nature glared night and day: and in this consciousness, knowing themselves diflerent from, if not superior to other men, there have been bards, prophets, and madmen, who believed themselves especially inspired for a superhuman destiny. From all such genius may we be delivered. Luckier is the rude swain who "sits beneath the hawthorne shade, and carves out dials quaintly, point by point." The soul can wander to such ecstatic heights only to discover the incomprehensibility of God, and to tremble lest the seat of reason fall; while the more sensuous organization, more deeply wrapt in earthly desires and instincts, finds in the very depth of its existence a consoling assurance of its necessity, which amounts almost to a reason why it should live, and live forever.