ardinals, consulting upon the interests of
the Holy See; there a company of Brahmins setting an offering of rice
before their idol. In one direction, there is a handful of citizens
building a new town in the midst of a forest; in another, there is a
troop of horsemen hovering on the horizon, while a caravan is traversing
the Desert. Under the twinkling shadows of a German vineyard, national
songs are sung; from the steep places of the Swiss mountains the Alp-horn
resounds; in the coffee-house at Cairo, listeners hang upon the voice of
the romance reciter; the churches of Italy echo with solemn hymns; and
the soft tones of the child are heard, in the New England parlour, as the
young scholar reads the Bible to parent or aged grandfather.

All these, and more, will a traveller of the most enlightened order
revolve before his mind's eye as he notes the groups which are presented
to his senses. Of such travellers there are but too few; and vague and
general, or merely traditional, notions of right and wrong must serve
the purpose of the greater number. The chief evil of moral notions being
vague or traditional is, that they are irreconcileable with liberality
of judgment; and the great benefit of an ascertainment of the primary
principles of morals is, that such an investigation dissolves prejudice,
and casts a full light upon many things which cease to be fearful and
painful when they are no longer obscure. We all know how different a
Sunday in Paris appears to a sectarian, to whom the word of his priest
is law; and to a philosopher, in whom religion is indigenous, who
understands the narrowness of sects, and sees how much smaller even
Christendom itself is than Humanity. We all know how offensive the
prayers of Mahomedans at the corners of streets, and the pomp of
catholic processions, are to those who know no other way than entering
into their closet, and shutting the door when they pray; but how felt
the deep thinker who wrote the Religio Medici? He was an orderly member
of a Protestant church, yet he uncovered his head at the sight of a
crucifix; he could not laugh at pilgrims walking with peas in their
shoes, or despise a begging friar; he could "not hear an Ave Maria bell
without an elevation;" and it is probable that even the Teraphim of the
Arabs would not have been wholly absurd, or the car of Juggernaut itself
altogether odious in his eyes. Such is the contrast between the sectary
and the philosopher.

SECTION