orality, as a system, upraises itself, if we can be
challenged here on our own ground, and fail to make
it good, what we call the life of the soul becomes a
dream of a feeble enthusiast, and we moralists a mark
for the sceptic's finger to point at with scorn.

Bold and ably urged arguments against our own
convictions, if they do not confuse us, will usually send
us back over our ground to re-examine the strength of
our positions: and if we are honest with ourselves, we
shall very often find points of some uncertainty left
unguarded, of which the show of the strength of our
enemy will oblige us to see better to the defence ....
It was not without some shame, and much uneasiness,
that, while we were ourselves engaged in this process,
full of indignation with Mr. Macaulay, we heard a
clear voice ringing in our ear, "Who art thou that
judgest another?" and warning us of the presence in
our own heart of a sympathy, which we could not deny,
with the sadly questionable hero of the German epic,
Reynard the Fox. With our vulpine friend, we were
on the edge of the very same abyss, if, indeed, we
were not rolling in the depth of it. By what sophistry
could we justify ourselves, if not by the very same
which we had just been so eagerly condemning? And
our conscience whispered to us that we had been swift
to detect a fault in another, because it was the very
fault to which, in our own heart of hearts, we had a
latent leaning.

Was it so indeed, then? Was Reineke no better
than Iago? Was the sole difference between them,
that the vales sacer who had sung the exploits of
Reineke loved the wicked rascal, and entangled us in
loving him? It was a question to be asked .... And
yet we had faith enough in the straightforwardness of
our own sympathies to feel sure that it must admit of
some sort of answer. And, indeed, we rapidly found
an answer satisfactory enough to give us time to
breathe, in remembering that Reineke, with all his
roguery, has no malice in him .... It is not in his
nature to hate; he could not do it if he tried. The
characteristic of Iago is that deep motiveless malignity
which rejoices in evil as its proper element, which loves
evil as good men love virtue. In his calculations on
the character of the Moor, he despises his
unsuspicious trustingness as imbecility, while he hates him
as a man because his nature is the perpetual opposite
and perpetual reproach of his own .... Now Reineke
would not have hurt a cre