_ nothing, but only to _see_ others do
nothing.--Thus does Literature also, like a sick thing,
superabundantly "listen to itself."

No less is this unhealthy symptom manifest, if we cast a glance on our
Philosophy, on the character of our speculative Thinking. Nay already,
as above hinted, the mere existence and necessity of a Philosophy is
an evil. Man is sent hither not to question, but to work: "the end of
man," it was long ago written, "is an Action, not a Thought." In the
perfect state, all Thought were but the picture and inspiring symbol
of Action; Philosophy, except as Poetry and Religion, would have no
being. And yet how, in this imperfect state, can it be avoided, can it
be dispensed with? Man stands as in the centre of Nature; his fraction
of Time encircled by Eternity, his handbreadth of Space encircled by
Infinitude: how shall he forbear asking himself, What am I; and
Whence; and Whither? How too, except in slight partial hints, in kind
asseverations and assurances, such as a mother quiets her fretfully
inquisitive child with, shall he get answer to such inquiries?

The disease of Metaphysics, accordingly, is a perennial one. In all
ages, those questions of Death and Immortality, Origin of Evil,
Freedom and Necessity, must, under new forms, anew make their
appearance; ever, from time to time, must the attempt to shape for
ourselves some Theorem of the Universe be repeated. And ever
unsuccessfully: for what Theorem of the Infinite can the Finite render
complete? We, the whole species of Mankind, and our whole existence
and history, are but a floating speck in the illimitable ocean of the
All; yet _in_ that ocean; indissoluble portion thereof; partaking of
its infinite tendencies: borne this way and that by its deep-swelling
tides, and grand ocean currents;--of which what faintest chance is
there that we should ever exhaust the significance, ascertain the
goings and comings? A region of Doubt, therefore, hovers forever in
the background; in Action alone can we have certainty. Nay properly
Doubt is the indispensable inexhaustible material whereon Action
works, which Action has to fashion into Certainty and Reality; only on
a canvas of Darkness, such is man's way of being, could the
many-coloured picture of our Life paint itself and shine.

Thus if our eldest system of Metaphysics is as old as the _Book of
Genesis_, our latest is that of Mr. Thomas Hope, published only within
the current year. It is a chroni