-nay,
but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His
Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable
Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to
him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?"

Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him
as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the
Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the
Wine-press at _Ophrah_, that _Gideon_ was called by the Angel; and
methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his
Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his
Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever
give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some
Night on the Manuscript, while _Ettwood_ is dozing over it;--why, there's
an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder
how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever
permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond
into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep.
_Justinian's Pandects_ turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost
once. The Passage round the _Cape_ was made and forgotten.----If I pore
over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the _Cape_,
I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father
hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than
_Columbus_ for Queen _Isabel_--hath revealed to me a far better _New
World_. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues
more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without
picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him,
Slope downward, beneath the _Azores_. And, in the less brilliant Hour,
I, by Faith or Fancy, discern _Ithuriel_ and _Zephon_ in the Shade; and
by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little
later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we
might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. _Pneuma_! His
Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when
no Man can work--when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from
their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about
the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that wat