vity. There
are no drones so perfect in the world as the truly orthodox. Hence the
usual superiority of a dissenting, over an established church. It is for
this reason, too, and from this cause, that a great man is seldom, if
ever, a good one. It is inconsistent with the very nature of things to
expect it, unless it be from a co-operation of singular circumstances,
whose return is with the comets. Vice, on the contrary, is endowed with
strong passions--a feverish thirst after forbidden fruits and waters--a
bird-nesting propensity, that carries it away from the haunts of the
crowded city, into strange wilds and interminable forests. It lives upon
adventure--it counts its years by incidents, and has no other mode of
computing time or of enjoying life. This fact--and it is undeniable with
respect to both the parties--will furnish a sufficient reason why the
best heroes of the best poets are always great criminals. Were this not
the case, from what would the interest be drawn?--where would be the
incident, if all men, pursuing the quiet paths of non-interference with
the rights, the lives, or the liberties of one another, spilt no blood,
invaded no territory, robbed no lord of his lady, enslaved and made no
captives in war? A virtuous hero would be a useless personage both in
play and poem--and the spectator or reader would fall asleep over the
utterance of stale apothegms. What writer of sense, for instance, would
dream of bringing up George Washington to figure in either of these
forms before the world--and how, if he did so, would he prevent reader
or auditor from getting excessively tired, and perhaps disgusted, with
one, whom all men are now agreed to regard as the hero of civilization?
Nor do I utter sentiments which are subjects either of doubt or
disputation. I could put the question in such a form as would bring the
million to agree with me. Look, for instance, at the execution of a
criminal. See the thousands that will assemble, day after day, after
travelling miles for that single object, to gape and gaze upon the last
agonizing pangs and paroxsyms of a fellow-creature--not regarding for an
instant the fatigue of their position, the press of the crowd, or the
loss of a dinner--totally insusceptible, it would seem, of the several
influences of heat and cold, wind and rain, which at any other time
would drive them to their beds or firesides. The same motive which
provokes this desire in the spectator, is the parent,