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fruitless race!—There is no objection to our living again—we desire to live again—yea, we all think we shall live again. It is useless to say that the notion of immortality was first suggested by some imposter: God was the father of that impostor, and there was purpose in his existence.—What!—after all—all our speculation, all our hopes and ideals,—after all the promises our theory affords us, that whatever can be done for our pleasure will be done, is it probable, reasonable, sane, any thing but monstrous, that God, like a boy who draws an image on a slate, wantonly spits on us, and wipes us out? We cannot believe it. Give us a segment, and we can describe the circle. Give us a bone of an animal, and we can describe the animal. And if this segment of life would fit a glorious imaginary circle, either that circle exists, or else the only thing that lives in defiance of all analogy—the only thing whose instincts are opposed entirely to its interests, is the human soul. We cannot think that God would put it into the head of a frivolous squirrel to provide store of nuts and leaves for his first winter, and leave us, whose poring brain has ached over his providence, to run through folly into shelterless and everlasting shame. Nay! we too shall be cared for—we shall succeed: in the softening gales and sunshine of a coming Spring, this first rude tenement of the soul shall be blown away, and she will leap and laugh in a rejuvenated world.