"Sirs, I am coming to that. Whence arises the desire of honour, but from man's necessity of excelling--in other words, of improving his faculties for the _benefit_ of others,--though, unconscious of that consequence, man only strives for their _praise_? But that desire for honour is unextinguishable, and man is naturally anxious to carry its rewards beyond the grave. Therefore, he who has slain most lions or enemies, is naturally prone to believe that he shall have the best hunting fields in the country beyond, and take the best place at the banquet. Nature, in all its operations, impresses him with the idea of an invisible Power; and the principle of honour,--that is, the desire of praise and reward,--makes him anxious for the approval which that Power can bestow. Thence comes the first rude idea of RELIGION; and in the death-hymn at the stake, the savage chants songs prophetic of the distinctions he is about to receive. Society goes on; hamlets are built; property is established. He who has more than another has more power than another. Power is honoured. Man covets the honour attached to the power which is attached to possession. Thus the soil is cultivated; thus the rafts are constructed; thus tribe trades with tribe; thus COMMERCE is founded and CIVILISATION commenced. Sirs, all that seems least connected with honour, as we approach the vulgar days of the present, has its origin in honour, and is but an abuse of its principles. If men now-a-days are hucksters and traders--if even military honours are purchased, and a rogue buys his way to a peerage--still all arise from the desire for honour, which society, as it grows old, gives to the outward signs of titles and gold, instead of, as once, to its inward essentials,--courage, truth, justice, enterprise. Therefore, I say, sirs, that honour is the foundation of all improvement in mankind." "You have argued like a schoolman, brother," said Mr Caxton admiringly; "but still, as to this round piece of silver,--don't we go back to the most barbarous ages in estimating so highly such things as have no real value in themselves--as could not give us one opportunity for instructing our minds." "Could not pay for a pair of boots," added Uncle Jack. "Or," said Mr Squills, "save you one twinge of the cursed rheumatism you have got for life from that night's bivouac in the Portuguese marshes--to say nothing of the bullet in your cranium, and that cork leg, which must much diminish the salutary effects of your constitutional walk."