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672 those who happen to pass to windward of him. But in this country, and in our age, the extremes of wanton self-indulgence are far less in fashion, and therefore less need to be denounced, than the acrid and noxious pretences of those who overcharge their mimickry of conscience, because they know nothing of the thing itself.

The genius of the age, meaning its characteristic tendency, is not a phrase so unlike, as it seems at first sight, to that of the genius of a man, namely, the highest thought that inspires him, and marks him out from the crowd. Genius, in the one expression, means, indeed, something like temper or character; in the other, originality—the power of realizing the previously unknown, whether in art, or science, or life. But every generation has genius in the higher sense, though every man has not. That is to say, every generation has a feeling that, in some direction or other before it, there lies an infinite unknown reality, towards which it must work, and which promises it endless triumphs, and immeasurable rewards. This feeling is never a deception, for it points to a universe of wonder, which does not merely lie before us, on this side or that, but encompasses us on all, though generally it is but through some one vista that any age or man can discern and effectually approach it. Thus, too, there is something of genius in all children, who are distinguished from adults in nothing more than in this, that their world being so much smaller than ours, seems to them so much larger than ours appears to most of us. But all the higher emotions bring to all who experience them something of the tremulous joy and sublime anticipations of creative genius. What mother has not felt this, bending over her child? What lover, looking along the path on which he has seen or hopes to see the woman he loves?

In a practical country like ours, that is, one where almost all the energies of almost all energetic minds are employed in outward work of some kind, a man of a different temper and tendencies is not only hampered and wounded by endless discordances in his life with that of all around him, but finding no sympathy, and no public at one with him, he is perpetually driven into doubt of the reality and worth of the objects which alone can satisfy his deepest feelings, and suitably engage his best faculties. A philosopher in England has the discomfort of an eagle in darkness, while he is held to be an owl in daylight. Wretched, therefore, is he if his philosophy be but that of the head, and does not so strengthen and purify his heart as to sustain him against neglect, solitude, the mistrust and sorrow of his friends, and the loud revilings of all who fancy any difference of pursuits and affections from theirs to be an intentional outrage against them. In fact, in opposing ourselves to the stream of things which we cannot altogether escape from, our only justification must be a love of truth, inseparable from a knowledge of it, which brings still more of inward consolation than of outward trial.

It is a melancholy thing when any one who professes devotion to the pure service of wisdom, and who must know how few as yet imagine that there is such a vocation for man, at the same time complains fretfully of the indifference and injustice of the world. If wisdom is not better than the world of to-day, why not serve the world instead of wisdom? If it is, why complain of the exchange by which you have been so much the gainer? The jewel hidden under the sand of the desert laments not its dark and silent lot. The sand lies open to the sun and dews, and to the feet of the ostrich, the antelope, the camel, and of all unclean beasts. The jewel is concealed because it is, not because it is not, precious. When the true day comes which will consign the dust to neglect, it will be owned and honoured; and, at all events, to be a spark of diamond is more than to be a grain of sand.

The helve of the hatchet disputed against the blade, which was the worthier? Nay, said the wise raven, which listened to the argument, and had not spoken for a thousand years before, the steel will hew a hundred handles for itself, but the hundred handles could never shape one blade.

The tone of the perfectly well-bred, that is, of those who, with a natural aptitude for refinement, have