Why, for that matter," said Joe, "there are thousands now going from England, who carry out no other freight than hatred to the old country, which has hunted them forth from it. What do I owe to the men who ruined me, who drove me to poaching, made my wife a beggar, and my son a "Hold, father! said Bill, "let bygones be bygones. Settling in a new country is like a new leaf turned over in a man's life,-let's say no more of the previous ones. But the land 's now out of sight, and it grows dark and cold. Let's below!" The ship sailed on; the little specks of light upon the rocks and headlands along the English coast came out in the dark one by one, but these, too, disappeared, and there was nothing but the crowded emigrant-ship and the wide waste of waters on every side. Morning came, and now might be seen the Irish emigrants peering into the north-west, whereabout their Old Ireland lay. They hailed it by the most loving names; all day the shore was seen on the leebow, like a low-lying cloud,-the outlines of the land but faintly visible. Still it was Ireland,-dear Old Ireland, the Green Island, -the land that had starved and beggared those men and women who had loved it so, and whose hearts clung about it still! The country that had scourged them, dishoused them, driven them forth as outcasts, and which they yet loved! The old women sat rocking themselves to and fro, with their faces towards the land; the girls uttered loud laments; the men wept. One Irish girl there was, of about fourteen, who was alone on board,-she seemed the most indifferent of the party. Her relations were all in America,-she was the last of the family that had been sent for; and now, her passage paid by her brother, who had sent home the funds, she looked forward with joy to the new land. Ireland was nothing to her. She had no kindly memories clinging about it. Ireland had been only sorrow, disaster, and privation of friends to her. hopes and joys lay across the wide ocean. All her But Ireland, too, faded from sight, and now the emigrant-ship was "alone, all alone on the bound less sea. Dull and wearisome, indeed, passed those long six weeks upon the ocean. Adverse winds, then calms, then a storm, then a favourable breeze, then a calm again. The crowded, uncomfortable steerage; the wet decks; the sickening roll of the ship; the unsavoury, ill-cooked victuals; the same round of faces, some complaining, many melancholy, a few merry and sad by turns, but all at length tiresome. Bilge-water, hard biscuit, musty flour, bad coffee, hard hammocks, nausea, foul air, dead timber, tarred ropes, wind, and wet,-the emigrant must brave all these horrors, and suffer them, before he can reach his far-off home across the deep. But there are dangers greater even than these to be encountered by our emigrants, the perils of the storm raging off a rock-bound shore! One day, about noon, the wind began to freshen, it gradually increased to a gale, and the night closed in black and stormy. The wind howled as it blew through the rigging; the vessel heaved and pitched in the trough of the sea, and then went careering over the summits of the uplifted billows. Occasionally a wave would break against the ship, and make it shake and shiver through all its timbers. But the labouring vessel gallantly recovered herself, and on she went, plunging through the fierce waters. The morning dawned; the weather was still dark and rough, and no solar observation could be taken. The captain believed himself to be somewhere off the main-land of America, nearing the coast of Nova Scotia; but he had lost reckoning, and all that he could do was to keep the ship before the wind, under double reefed top-sails. While he was pacing the deck in great anxiety, the look-out man on the masthead cried out, "Breakers a-head!" "Where away?" "On the lee-bow!" Those who still dared to brave the storm on deck, among whom was our old friend the poacher and his son, could see through the gloom the line of white breakers a-head, stretching away right and left. There was but little time to tack, and, indeed, it was scarcely possible in such a storm. In a few seconds the vessel struck with a grinding crash upon a rock, with all her weight. She then swung round broadside on the rock, and fell over to windward. The passengers had by this time rushed on deck, in a frightful state of terror. The water was already rushing in below. Now was heard the voice of prayer from those who had never prayed before. Some shrieked, some moaned, and some cursed. "Clear away the boats!" shouted the captain; and one by one the boats were lowered into the water on the lee-side of the ship, where the water was the smoothest, though the long waves dashed angrily over the doomed vessel. There was a rush to the boats, but old Joe stood forward, and called out,--“Not a man stir from on board, until the women and children are safe!" The captain insisted on this order being observed, and the women and children were lowered into the boats. The sea was terrible; yet the boats, tossed as they were on the boiling surf like so many pieces of cork, managed to live. The boats neared the land, they were safe! 66 "Now," said the captain, we must manage to save ourselves as we can, the ship is going to pieces!" Almost while he spoke a wave broke heavily on the stern part of the vessel, and she parted amid-ships. Some clung to pieces of the wreck, and were carried away on the advancing waves. Joe and his son found themselves clinging to a part of the ship's bulwarks and netting, struggling to keep themselves above water, for neither could swim. Suddenly, Joe called out,"We are safe! I feel the bottom!" They had been washed inside the reef of rocks, and were but a score fathoms from land. The women and children who had been saved, piteously wailed along the shore, some crying for brothers, others for husbands, whom they dreaded were among the lost. They cried and shrieked amidst the shreds of the wreck, which by this time lay strewn along the shore,-timbers, planks, boats, beds, barrels, emigrants' chests and baggage. The ill-fated vessel had now entirely disappeared. Joe and his son reached the strand, and clambered upon dry land. Old Kitty was the first to welcome them. She clung round her old husband, and wept sweet tears for his safety. "It's a rough landing in the new land," said Joe to his son; "but I hope the worst is over. Now, let us see if we can help the others." were They walked along the strand, upon which the surf was still dashing its spray, washing ashore bits of the wreck, emigrants' trunks, bedding, bulkheads, and furniture. Little was saved, except the lives of the passengers and crew, and it now seemed almost miraculous that so many should have escaped. But about twenty emigrants and seamen missing, and occasionally a body was thrown ashore, round which a group would gather hastily, to see whether in its features they could discern some missing friend and relative. Among one of these groups was seen the poor widow, mourning over her second son, whom a spent wave had just washed upon the beach. Her grief was not loud, but deep. It was another heavy stroke of Providence ; before which she bowed her head and wept. But she was not childless. Her other sons were preserved to her, and as she looked upon those who had so mercifully been saved, her mourning was mingled with thankfulness and praise. The wreck was nearly a total one. A few things were saved,-a few boxes, and a little money which the emigrants carried about their persons; but for the most part they had been made destitute by the calamity which had befallen them. The part of the shore on which they had been cast was on the mainland of Nova Scotia, near the town of Shelbourne, not far from Cape Sable. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood soon obtained intelligence of the disaster, and the people of Halifax, and the other towns along the same coast, extended their aid to the wrecked emigrants with praiseworthy alacrity; and not many weeks had elapsed before the greater part of them were enabled by this kindly help to proceed on their way to their various destinations in Canada and the States. A year and more passed, and the old poacher is seen sitting under the porch of a timber-built cottage on the verge of one of the great prairies in Illinois. He is mending one of the implements of the farm, of which, with his son, he is the owner. Before him spreads a fertile and well-cropped farm, beyond which lies the rolling prairie, with here and there a cottage roof peeping up,-pastures, cornfields, little independent holdings, as far as the eye can reach. Behind extends the deep shelter of the primeval forest, from which the sound of a woodman's axe proceeds,-for his son had gone forth in the evening to cut a fresh store of wood. Old Kitty, the wife, stands by the door-cheek looking out on the smiling landscape. "Well, Joe," she said, "it's worth coming all this weary way, to rest here in peace and plenty!" "Rest, wife?" said Joe, looking up. "There's no pleasure in rest; no, no,-work, work! I never felt more willing and able to work in my life. Bringing down a bird on the wing's nothing to farming one's own estate. Think of old Joe the poacher, a landed proprietor in the great Republic! Isn't it enough to turn a poor man's head? "Ah! it was a bright day that brought us here, Joe, and we never can be too thankful. But here's Bill coming laden with chips; and I must e'en go in and have the supper ready.' And so we leave the poacher's family to peace, plenty, and rough comfort, earned by honest industry, in their far-off home in the West. TEACHING OF WOMEN. Surely the mission of woman demands a higher teaching than modern instruction usually affords. It is an adjustment of mechanism rather than a shaping of mind. One might imagine that the ultimate aim and result of her creation was to be realized, in the pursuit of some flying composer of visionary swiftness; in pasturing uncomfortable cows upon thirsty fields of red chalk; or exhibiting the Great Mogul scowling frightfully in worsted. In this respect the 19th century will gain little applause by a parallel with the 16th, when the brightest eyes were familiar with Greek as now with Rossini, and a Latin letter to Ascham about Plato was run off with the fluent grace of an invitation to a wedding. Some thinkers will perceive in these decorations of the mind a lasting fascination not always found in later accomplishments, and consider them more likely to win unquiet hearts from wandering and turmoil— To fireside happiness and hours of ease Blest with that charm-the certainty to please. Wilmott's Pleasures of Literature, DIAMOND DUST. It shows much more stupidity to be grave at a good thing than to be merry at a bad one; and of all ignorance that which is silent is the least productive, for praters may suggest an idea if they cannot start one. WIT and work are the two wheels of the world's chariot; they need to be equal, and each fixed fast. MUCH may be done in those little shreds and patches of time, which every day produces, and which most men throw away, but which nevertheless will make at the end of it no small deduction from the life of man. WE need ever to remember, for thankfulness and for hope, that what is now easy and natural for a man and for the world, may have become so only after many labours, cares, and experiences. THE nose of a mob is its imagination; by this, at any time, it can be quietly led. To converse well, we need the cool tact of talent; to talk well, the glowing abandon of genius. A BEAUTIFUL external life symbolizes a beautiful internal life. MORAL truths are prophecies of ends, but not of the forms and succession of events. No two things differ more than hurry and despatch; hurry is the mark of a weak mind, despatch of a strong one. THE virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the sentinel. THOUGH We travel the world over to find the Beautiful, we must carry it within us, or we find it not. THE Soul clings in the midst of the infinity of worlds and planets to the little space that an eyelid covers,— to a vanishing, a scarcely discerned glance; and upon this celestial nothing rests its earthly paradise, with all its perfumed flowers, with all its waving trees. LET in the light on a nest of young owls, and they directly complain of the injury you have done them. WHERE judgment has wit to express it, there is the best orator. THE presence, even, of a person who has a fixed dislike to one, oppresses and constrains a loving spirit, like the heavy atmosphere of a thunderstorm, whose real shock disturbs us less than its approach. No promenade with men is ever so delightful as that a child takes with his parents. IT is a Spanish maxim, He who loseth wealth, loseth much; he who loseth a friend, loseth more; but he who loseth his spirits, loseth all. SIN is the fruitful parent of distempers, and ill lives occasion good physicians. WE may accept from others sacrifices to save us from martyrdom, but never to purchase a joy. THE passions are at least bold, generous, although destroying lions; egotism is a quiet, deep-biting, eversucking, venomous bug. CUSTOM is the law of one description of fools and fashion of another; but the two parties often clash, for precedent is the legislator of the first, and novelty of the last. THE highest luxury of which the human mind is sensible is to call smiles upon the face of misery. Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street. SMALL TALK-CHIT CHAT. WE do not despise what is called "small talk" any more than we do small change. We are very thankful for it, when better is not to be had. And indeed society, even of the best kind, would be a very dull affair without it. One cannot always be talking philosophy, or discussing heavy matters of state. Sometimes, when we have found ourselves in companies where the majority consisted of the excessively rational kind, we have often longed for a little palatable nonsense as a relief. We can excuse the " lion," for he is generally expected to roar; but lions are very tiresome, and we make a point of avoiding them, -we cheerfully leave them to "bestow their tediousness" on those who love lions. Let us confess it, that we prefer a smaller description of talk, in which all can take part,-which all can understand. Of all other men in society, we dislike the pompous -those who are constantly riding the high horse, and who will not condescend to utter a joke, far less to laugh at one; men who are extremely oracular about the state of the weather, and will tell you that "it's a fine day," in a tone of the most awful philosophic profundity, but who regard a pun as Johnson did (perhaps they cannot utter one), and are always quoting his alliterative aphorism, that "he who perpetrates a pun would pick a pocket." Without freedom, ease, humour, warmth, and geniality, there can be no genuine, social conversation. It is more a thing of impulse than of reason, and is not a matter of dignity, but of unconstrainedness. It abhors all mystery, sentiment, and profundity. It is a succession of flashes of light playing upon a brilliant surface. Metaphysics are out of place in social converse, as much so as a death's head would be on the drawing-room table. Here tact, discrimination, and elegance, are in their element,-such, for instance, as you meet with in the best female society. A little froth now and then there may be, but always infinite grace. Readiness, too, is indispensable. In conversation, you cannot excuse yourself like the gentleman described in the Spectator, who had a great fund at home, but no small change in his pocket! For light, sparkling, vivacious talking, the French excel all other people. The Germans are amongst the heaviest and most phlegmatic; Englishmen stand somewhere about midway between. The story is even [PRICE 1d. told of a dull German count who had made acquaintance with some young Englishmen abroad, and would fain catch something of their vivacity; with this view he began jumping over his chairs and tables for some time, and when surprised by a young friend in the act, explained, with a becoming simplicity, "Oh! I am just learning to be lively!" Any effort is injurious to pleasant conversation. Some men who flatter themselves that they shine as talkers, are never satisfied unless they say a witty thing when they open their mouths. They are perpetually on the rack of invention, and in a state of restraint, which is no less tormenting to themselves than to their hearers. Swift says, the dullest conversation he ever listened to was that at Will's Coffeehouse, where the wits (as they were called) used formerly to assemble-five or six men who had written plays or prologues, or had a share in a miscellany, and resorted thither to entertain one another with their trifling composures, in as important an air as if they had been the noblest efforts of human nature, and that the fate of kingdoms depended on them. No! There must be ease and freedom to make talking palatable at all times. And for small talkthe daily talk of society, these are indispensable. It is well indeed, if there be a good fountain of power as a motive source, with knowledge, sympathy, and savoir vivre; but even where the knowledge is small, let there be cordial, kindly sympathy, and small talk will be pleasant still-not the "small talk that dies in agonies," but cheerful, hearty, brisk, effervescent, rattling small talk, full of good nature and kindly banter, if of nothing else. We would even brave the folly of the Wag on such occasions, rather than endure the "cold water" of your tremendously sensible and common-place weather-wise people. Of course you know the Wag. He is a very popular character, especially in country parts, 'where a bit of sharp fun is a rare thing, and is valued accordingly. Is he not pronounced "the life of the party," great at a pic-nic,-and at evening soirees the hero of the night? None so well up as he is, in Punch and Joe Miller; and as for puns and conundrums, he can rattle them off by the score. Wag may not always be successful in his observations; he sometimes stumbles terribly, and when he has made a false summerset, he has to be picked up, and then looks foolish. The When the Wag is good-natured, he is by no means useless. Society would often be hideous without him. For English people have a tendency to "enjoy themselves sadly, after the manner of their country.' But the Wag rescues many an evening from the blues. Inspired by Joe, he braves the heaviest of Smiths and Browns, and sports his light fun in their faces. He will pun upon any subject, despising Johnson's aphorism above quoted. The Wag is really an honest fellow, though his wit may be of the stupidest, and his puns of the most excruciating character. The skilled and cultivated wag talks ingenious nonsense. Pompous, stupid persons despise nonsense. That is, because they cannot talk it. There is nothing so difficult as talking good nonsense; and no person can do it except one of first-rate ability. The Wag studies it as an art, and sometimes reaches to great heights. There is a genius of waggery which he strives to reach. The Wag is sometimes bored by a young lady observing of him-"Ah, here comes Bumby-now, do tell us something funny!" He thinks the young lady is quizzing him, but he doesn't care, and puffs along in short breaths. Here is a story-teller going to relate one of his long anecdotes. The Wag cuts him short by--"Oh! you have told us that before, fifty times!" The story-teller is floored. A great arguer tries to fasten a discussion on the Wag, who at once gives in to all his assertions, and agrees with him in everything, making the most ludicrous admissions, very soon putting a stop to the argument. Puffins, in Jerrold's comedy of Retired from Business, sets the wag down at a low figure, thus: : Puffins. "Mr. Fitzpennyweight, you are not what is called a wag?" Penny." Bless you! Not I." Puffins.-"Because you'll pardon me-we encourage nothing of that sort at Pumpkinfield. As much wit as you like, but waggery is low." Penny." Eh? What's the difference?" Puffins."The difference? Why, wit, I have heard called a merchant prince trading with the whole world, while waggery is a-a-in fact, a greengrocer, making up small penn'orths for the local vulgar." But the Wag cares as little for this dictum of Puffins, as he does for Samuel Johnson's famous dogma. He fulfils his mission, and is the "life of the party." We cannot always be talking heavy, in the lexicographer's style. Johnson must have been a great bore at times, with his heavy speeches. Poor Goldsmith could scarcely get in a word for his big bow-wow! Goldsmith was a bit of a wag, and a clever one, too. Philosophers are all very well in their way, but sometimes they are out of place-especially when they would convert the parlour into a lecture-room. It is sometimes amusing to see their condescending efforts in the way of small talk-an elephant attempting a minuet is nothing to it. The lesser wit has the advantage of him in that field, and gives us the small change which we look for. The philosopher cannot be everything; he cannot be gifted with the fascination of light and heavy talk. It is enough that he is a philosopher; let him leave sharp-shooting to the tirailleurs. How much would you give for the "bit of a wag," when you find that a fogy, fond of talking about the price of shares, or the effects of free trade, has fastened on you! You have had enough of business during your working hours; you want to unbend; and lo! here is the philosophy of the shop, the counter, and the exchange, dogging your steps, and seated by your side. Your friend will bestow his tediousness upon you, which you are privily wishing were a very long way off. What you want is talk, conversation, chat, instead of which you are treated to this solid man's uppermost thoughts about money. Some such person the author of Companions of my Solitude says, he once met, as follows:-"I was travelling," says he, "in a railway carriage with a most precise-looking formal person-the arch-Quaker, if there be such a person. His countenance was very noble, or had been so, before it was frozen up. He said nothing. I felt a great respect for him. At last he opened his mouth. I listened with attention. I had hitherto lived with foolish, gad-about, dinnereating, dancing, people; now I was going to hear the words of retired wisdom; when he thus addressed his young daughter sitting opposite :-'Hast thee heard how Southamptons went lately?' [In those days Southampton railway shares were called Southamptons,] and she replied, with like gravity, giving | him some information that she had picked up about Southamptons yesterday evening. I leant back rather sickened, as I thought what was probably the daily talk, and the daily thoughts in that family, from which I conjectured that all amusement was banished, save that connected with intense moneygetting." Light conversation-what we call graceful chatis really an art-the gay, ornamental art of intellect. Society is nothing without it. You may call it trifling, but it is very agreeable, and it is very useful. The world is made up of trifles, and he who can trifle elegantly and gracefully, is a valuable acquisition to society. Don't think that the man or woman who chats gracefully about trifles, can do nothing else. Under those light sallies of wit and humour, you may often discern qualities of penetrating sagacity, and a learned spirit of observation, such as may be looked for vainly in persons of more solemn pretensions. Even the wag now-a-days draws his illustrations from books, and is well up with the current literature of the day. Perhaps he runs as he reads, but read he does. A genial wit is indeed a great treasure, and is a constant source of happiness to others. He is a general favourite; his words are watched, and his sayings are repeated. He lightens care, diffuses cheerfulness, quickens the thoughts of others, and multiplies harmless enjoyment. It is possible, however, to have too much of a good thing. Even waggery becomes tedious. It loses its savour, and palls upon the taste, unless varied by more sober converse. It is good in its place, as a condiment; but one cannot live altogether on pepper and cinnamon. There are some kinds of wit that blister-malevolent wit, that will lose a friend sooner than a joke at his expense. This is a fool's fire, and ought not to be followed nor encouraged. "To be captious and contradictory," says Sharpe, "is offensive enough, but not so provoking so unbearable as the spirit of mockery affected by witlings and coxcombs; for that, like a blighting east wind, withers up every living and heart-felt sentiment springing up in conversation, and especially chills and disheartens the young, in their earliest intercourse with the world. The weapon inflicting the wound is so fine as to be scarcely perceptible, but the point has been dipped in poison. A breeze, itself invisible, often makes a whole lake to shudder. Yet one would rather be cut by a keen, than by a blunt lancet, and a coarse supercilious way is almost as hateful as the freezing irony of more subtle ill-humour." Our wag, therefore, must be a good-natured one, else the flavour of his conversation is lost. Wit is nothing without kindliness; though such an observation as Lamb's is to be excused, who once cut short a family dispute over elder wine, by saying "I wonder what it is that makes elder wine so very pleasant, when elder brothers are so extremely disagreeable." None, indeed, so happy in flinging about his light shafts of mirthful, humorous wit, as Charles Lamb-the soul of good company wherever he went. The following occurrence, which took place on his way home to Enfield one day, is full of waggery, and may well bring to a close this paper. "We travelled," says he, "with one of those troublesome fellow-passengers in a stage-coach, that is called a "well-informed man." For twenty miles, we discoursed about the properties of steam, probabilities of carriage by ditto, till all my science, and more than all, were exhausted, and I was thinking of escaping my torment by getting up on the outside, when, getting into Bishops Stortford, my gentleman, spying some farming land, put an unlucky question to me. 'What sort of a crop of turnips I thought we should have this year?' Emma's eyes turned to me, to know what in the world I could have to say; and she burst into a violent fit of laughter, maugre her pale, serious cheeks, when, with the greatest gravity, I replied, that it depended, I believed, upon boiled legs of mutton!' This clenched our conversation, and my gentleman, with a face half wise, half in scorn, troubled us with no more conversation-scientific or philosophical, for the remainder of the journey." and having gifted him with a magic ring, which makes a spirit of power his slave, he takes him to the entrance of a garden of enchantment, and sends him thence, to seek and bring forth a certain wonderful lamp, which renders the owner of it richer than a caliph and more powerful than a sultan. This is the story of Aladdin it is also the story of the Poet,- -a close typification, whether or not so intended, of the life of genius. "The magician" is that world-circling spirit, which, through the lips of learning, "the old man eloquent," claims kin with his; "the still country," dreamland; "the enchanted garden," the in-world, where immortal mind ripens,- "those marvels which are at once fruit and gem upon the tree;" "the lamp," the master power by which genius is commanded, and made to work at will, to call up some matchless "fabric of a vision," -"a dome of thought, and palace of the soul." That learning is not all-powerful, that, great magician as it is, there are some, and these the very greatest things to which it cannot of itself attain, the moral of this story well declares. It has a large dominion. Whatsoever judgment or common sense can grasp or appreciate, is beneath its sway; what man's labour can accomplish it commands. It rules the world of ordinary life. But there is much beyond, whence it is, from its nature, shut out,another world (which the garden represents), Where blossom more freshly the flowers, shines a more beautiful sun, into which none may enter, having other than a child-like heart, which, like holy wisdom, "reacheth every where by reason of its extreme purity." And thus, in man and child, learning and genius, we recognize types of the two intelligences which enter into the rule of either world; the intelligence of the man is the reason common to mankind; the intelligence of the child that which is common to purer spirits, to man not an inheritance, but a gift. We are told that man is "wiser in his generation than the children of light." But who shall declare that such is so good a wisdom? As far as truth and simplicity are above lying and crookedness, so far is the wisdom of the heart above the cunning of the world; and it is in this wisdom of love that the Poet is wise. It is to teach him this that the magic land is opened to him; that even from childhood he is permitted to behold, to hear, to feel, and to commune with shapes, sounds, sensations,-beings of another creation, which are beyond the perception of the multitude. The woods to him are eloquent, the streams speak a sweet language, and appeal to him as with a living voice : THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades; Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in; Their old poetic legends to the wind; for we know from the collected experience, each of himself, of many of his class, that the Poet is such before school-time; a poet in grain not in polish only," Poeta nascitur, non fit." From the time his intellect has passed its infancy, learned to stand upright and walk; when it is loosed from the bands of weakness, grown out of the swaddling-clothes of inaction,-from the time when it first goes abroad, the child is unconsciously devising poetry, gathering from all he beholds, all he is taught, from whatever impresses him, new and strange meanings; tracing vaguely at first, more decisively as he proceeds, the analogies of passing things and circumstances with his own being and his fate. A flower does not droop by the wayside as he passes, nor a blossom fall, a bird or a shadow does not flit, without yielding something with which fancy may make its own more delightful play than that which is the common joy of boyhood. The paradoxical mode of being active and yet passive, by confining pleasures and passions to intellectual operations and imaginary results, gives a more than ordinarily amiable aspect to the childhood of the poet. "The child in general," says a foreign physiologist (Broussais), "prefers evil to good, because it ministers better to his vanity. It creates greater commotion, -an enjoyment which must at any hazard be procured. It is for this reason that he prides himself on breaking lifeless objects, for he finds therein the two-fold pleasure-founded on the necessity of self-satisfaction-of destroying resistance, and of exciting the rage of rational creatures, |