pping, and asked whether she could be expected to
walk differently from the rest of the family?

This fable throws me back on general principles; our writers--our
preachers--our statesmen, are fearful, and tremble at the appearance of
originality. The age overrules us all, society is strong, and the
individual is consequently weak. We have no patrons now, but, instead,
we have a mob. Attend a public meeting,--the speaker who is the most
applauded, is the man most given to exaggeration. Listen to a popular
preacher,--is he not invariably the most commonplace, and in his sermons
least suggestive, of men? When a new periodical is projected, what care
is taken that it shall contain nothing to offend, as if a man or writer
were worth a rap that did not come into collision with some prejudices,
and trample on some corns. In describing some ceremony where beer had
been distributed, a teetotal reporter, writing for a teetotal public,
omitted all mention of the beer. This is ridiculous, but such things are
done every day in all classes. Society exercises a censorship over the
press of the most distinctive character. The song says,

"Have faith in one another."

I say, have faith in yourself. This faith in oneself would go far to put
society in a better position than it is. A common complaint in
everybody's mouth is the want of variety in individual character--the
dreary monotony we find everywhere pervading society. Men and women,
lads and maidens, boys and girls, if we may call the little dolls dressed
up in crinoline and flounces, and the young gentlemen in patent-leather
boots, such, are all alike. Civilization is a leveller of the most
destructive kind. Man is timid, imitative, and lazy. Hence, it is to
the past we must turn, whenever we would recall to our minds how sublime
and great man, in his might and majesty, may become. Hence it is we can
reckon upon but few who dare to stand alone in devotedness to truth and
human right. Most men are enslaved by the opinions of the little clique
in which they move; they can never imagine that beyond their little
circle there can exist anything that is lovely or of good report. We are
the men, and wisdom will die with us, is the burden of their song. We
judge not according to abstract principles, but conventional ideas. Ask
a young lady, of average intelligence, respecting some busy hive of
industry, and intelligence, and life. "Oh!" she exclaims, "there is n