unadvised industry, no unrewarded self-devotion, no loss of the brains
in toil. Am I an ox, or a dray?--You are both in extremes, he says.
You that will have all solid, and a world of pig-lead, deceive
yourselves grossly. You believe yourselves rooted and grounded on
adamant; and, yet, if we uncover the last facts of our knowledge, you
are spinning like bubbles in a river, you know not whither or whence,
and you are bottomed and capped and wrapped in delusions.

Neither will he be betrayed to a book, and wrapped in a gown. The
studious class are their own victims; they are thin and pale, their
feet are cold, their heads are hot, the night is without sleep, the
day a fear of interruption,--pallor, squalor, hunger, and egotism. If
you come near them, and see what conceits they entertain,--they are
abstractionists, and spend their days and nights in dreaming some
dreams; in expecting the homage of society to some precious scheme
built on a truth, but destitute of proportion in its presentment, of
justness in its application, and of all energy of will in the schemer
to embody and vitalize it.

But I see plainly, he says, that I cannot see. I know that human
strength is not in extremes, but in avoiding extremes. I, at least,
will shun the weakness of philosophizing beyond my depth. What is the
use of pretending to powers we have not? What is the use of pretending
to assurances we have not, respecting the other life? Why exaggerate
the power of virtue? Why be an angel before your time? These strings,
wound up too high, will snap. If there is a wish for immortality, and
no evidence, why not say just that? If there are conflicting evidences,
why not state them? If there is not ground for a candid thinker to
make up his mind, yea or nay,--why not suspend the judgment? I weary
of these dogmatizers. I tire of these hacks of routine, who deny the