makes a
thing He breaks the mould. The two peas do not resemble each other
under a microscope. Macaulay, in his essay on Madame D'Arblay,
declares that this extraordinary range of distinctions within very
narrow limits is one of the most notable things in the universe. 'No
two faces are alike,' he says, 'and yet very few faces deviate very
widely from the common standard. Among the millions of human beings
who inhabit London, there is not one who could be taken by his
acquaintance for another; yet we may walk from Paddington to Mile End
without seeing one person in whom any feature is so overcharged that we
turn round to stare at it. An infinite number of varieties lies
between limits which are not very far asunder. The specimens which
pass those limits on either side form a very small minority.'

So is it with trees. When you first drive up an avenue of poplars you
regard each tree as the exact duplicate of all the others. There is
certainly a general similarity, just as, in some households, there is a
striking family likeness. But just as, after spending a few days with
that household, you no longer mistake Jack for Charlie, or Jessie for
Jean, and even laugh at yourself for ever having been so stupid, so,
when you get to know the poplars better, you no longer suppose that
they are all alike. You soon detect the marks of individuality among
them; and, if one were felled and brought you, you could describe with
perfect accuracy the two trees between which it stood. That is
particularly the case with Gog and Magog. A casual visitor would
remark, as he approached the house, that we had a pair of gigantic
poplars at the front gate. It does not occur to him to distinguish
between them. For aught he knows, or for aught he cares, Gog might be
Magog, or Magog might be Gog. But to us the thing is absurd. We know
them so well that we should as soon think of mistaking one of the
children for another as of mistaking Gog for Magog, or Magog for Gog.
We salute the tall trees every morning when we rise; we pass them with
mystic greetings of our own a dozen times a day; and, before retiring
at night, we like to peep from the front windows and see their gigantic
forms grandly silhouetted against the evening sky. Gog is Gog, and
Magog is Magog; and the idea of mistaking the one for the other seems
ludicrous in the extreme. The solar system is as full of mysteries as
a conjurer's portmanteaux; but, of all the mysteries