I acknowledge that in the present case I do not address myself to the cold hearts, who contentedly
"Sink and slumber in their cells of clay;"
——Peace to all such;——but to the "felices animæ, quibus hæc cognoscere cura;"—to those who have enjoyed the pleasures of science, who have been successful—who have made discoveries—who have really illuminated the world—to the Bacons, the Newtons, the Lockes.—Allow me to mention one, Daniel Bernoulli, the most elegant mathematician, the only philosopher, and the most worthy man, of that celebrated family. He said to a gentleman, (Dr. Staehling,) who repeated it to me, that "when reading some of those wonderful guesses of Sir Isaac Newton, the subsequent demonstration of which has been the chief source of fame to his most celebrated commentators—his mind has sometimes been so overpowered by thrilling emotions, that he has wished that moment to be his last; and that it was this which gave him the clearest conception of the happiness of heaven." If such delightful emotions could be excited by the perception of mere truth, what must they be when each of these truths is an instance of wisdom, and when we recollect, that what we call wisdom in the works of nature, is always the nice adaptation of means for producing beneficent ends; and that each of these affecting qualities is susceptible of degrees which are boundless, and exceed our highest conceptions? What can this complex emotion or feeling be but rapture? But Bernoulli is a Doctor of Theology—and therefore a suspicious person, perhaps one of the combination hired by despots to enslave us. I will take another man, a gentleman of rank and family, a soldier, who often signalised himself as a naval commander—who at one time forced his way through a powerful fleet of the Venetians with a small squadron, and brought relief to a distressed garrison. I would desire the reader to peruse