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prises what is called passion; and although this passes in theory as at least a questionable quality, the entire want of it is subject to contempt among those whose teachings dread to give it countenance. Nature will out. We know in our hearts, however we may mutter with our lips, that there is a manhood above all intellectual ingenuity,—greatest in generosity, but great even in depravity,—greatest in Jesus of Nazareth, but great also in Alexander of Macedon, which appeals to us as the actual of a cherished ideal, and comforts the frailty of our common nature like "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land,"—a manhood that dwells in self-possession and defiance of pain. There is a glory of the sun, and a glory of the moon; there is a glory of the moral, and a glory of the intellectual nature; and, proud or humble, the same God is father of them all. Aurelian, splendid beneath the pillared arches of shouting Rome,—Latimer, at the stake,—and the poor gladiator, his nude chest heaving on the sand, and his full heart bursting with love and death as his dim eyes roam towards the banks of the Danube, to the great heart of humanity are one. Citizen or countryman, it matters little,—where bred—where taught—where travelled matters little,—the place subserves the man. Wherever the hero stands, he stands a column, and he stands alone. The orbed world is but the pedestal of his beauty. No rags can unman him—no pitch can defile him,—for every defect of outward circumstance looks but the random jeer of that fickle Fortune who cannot beat the brave, for all the gods despise her.