rose. The man
who would sneer or stare at a silly proposition nakedly put, will
admit that "there is a good deal in that" when "_that_" is the point
of an epigram shot into the ear. The rhetorician's rules--if they
_are_ rules--teach him not only to name his tools, but to use his
tools, the capacity of his tools--their extent--their limit; and from
an examination of the nature of the tools--(an examination forced on
him by their constant presence)--force him, also, into scrutiny and
comprehension of the material on which the tools are employed, and
thus, finally, suggest and give birth to new material for new tools.

* * * * *

Among his _eidola_ of the den, the tribe, the forum, the theatre,
etc., Bacon might well have placed the great _eidolon_ of the parlor
(or of the wit, as I have termed it in one of the previous
Marginalia)--the idol whose worship blinds man to truth by dazzling
him with the _apposite_. But what title could have been invented for
_that_ idol which has propagated, perhaps, more of gross error than
all combined?--the one, I mean, which demands from its votaries that
they reciprocate cause and effect--reason in a circle--lift themselves
from the ground by pulling up their pantaloons--and carry themselves
on their own heads, in hand-baskets, from Beersheba to Dan.

All--absolutely all the argumentation which I have seen on the nature
of the soul, or of the Deity, seems to me nothing but worship of this
unnameable idol. _Pour savoir ce qu'est Dieu_, says Bielfeld, although
nobody listens to the solemn truth, _il faut etre Dieu meme_--and to
reason about the reason is of all things the most unreasonable. At
least, he alone is fit to discuss the topic who perceives at a glance
the insanity of its discussion.

THE PENANCE OF ROLAND.

A ROMANCE OF THE PEINE FORTE ET DURE.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

PART I.

When the weird and wizard bats were flitting round his dusky way,
Over a moorland, like a whirlwind, rushed the knight, Sir Roland Grey;
When the crimson sun was setting, as the yellow moon arose,
Far and faint, behind Sir Roland, sank the slogan of his foes--

Far and faint; and growing fainter as he reached the forest sward,
Spreading round for many an acre over the lands which owned him lord.
As he dashed along the woodland, fitfully, upon the breeze,
Swept the tu-who-o of the owlet through the naked forest trees;

And the loudly whirring black-cock through the creaking