deep force of thought, nor the shadowy image of fancy and the senses, to the living warmth of feeling,—it is then that belief uninterruptedly follows the peculiar bent of reason to enlarge every conception beyond all barriers between itself and the ideal, and that it clings closely to the idea of a Being which comprehends all other beings, and, purely and without medium, exists, contemplates, and creates. But, on the other hand, in some minds a prudent diffidence serves to confine belief within the domain of experience: often, it is true, the feeling willingly delights in the contemplation of the ideal so peculiar to reason, but finds a more pleasurable fascination in the endeavour to interweave the sensuous and spiritual natures in a closer union—to lend a richer significance to the symbol, and render it a more intelligible and suggestive embodiment of the truth; and thus man is often compensated for the loss of that enthusiasm of hopeful longing, by that ever-attendant consciousness of the success of his endeavours which strictly forbids his gaze to wander lost in endless distances. Though less bold, his course is more certain; the conception of reason to which he closely clings is still clearer; the sensuous intuition, although a less faithful reflex of the truth, is more readily adapted to experience, and therefore more fully answers his requirements. On the whole, there is nothing which the mind so willingly admires, and is inclined to with such perfect unison of feeling, as the recognition of orderful omniscience presiding in a countless number of various and even antagonistic individuals. Yet this admiration is far more characteristic of some minds than others; and there are some who more readily embrace a belief according to which one Being created and regulated the universe, and ever preserves it with the solicitude of far-seeing wisdom. In the conception of others, the individual seems more sacred; they are more peculiarly attracted by this idea than
