This must be admitted and assumed, at least if my sixth postulate is to have any sense in it which is,--that no man is wholly indifferent to, and unaffected by, _every_ kind of truth; indeed even if it be only to poetical _reflections_ (illusions) that he swears allegiance--inasmuch as he does even _that_ he thereby does homage to truth; for in all poetry it is but the part which is _true_ which goes to the heart (or head), just as in our passions and emotions nothing but the Moral produces effect. A reflection which should be nothing whatever _but_ a reflection would necessarily, for that very reason, not _be_ a reflection. Every _semblance_ (meaning every thing which we _see_, or suppose we _see_) presupposes the existence of _light_ somewhere, and _is_ itself light, only in an enfeebled or reflected condition. Only, most people in our, not so much _enlightened_ as _enlightening_ times, are like nocturnal insects who avoid, or are pained by, the light of day, but, in the night, fly to every _nocturnal_ light, every phosphorescent surface. The graves of the best men are like those of the Moravians, level and flat, and this earthly sphere of ours is a Westminster Abbey of such levellings and flattenings--ah! what innumerable drops of tears as well as blood (which are what the three grand trees of this world--the trees of Life, of Knowledge, and Liberty--are watered with) have been shed, but never counted. History, in painting the human race, does not follow the example of that painter who, making a portrait of a one-eyed king, drew only his seeing profile; what history paints is the blind side, and it needs some grand calamity to bring great men to light--as comets are seen during total eclipses of the sun. Not upon the battle-field only--upon the holy ground of virtue also, and upon the classic soil of truth--the pedestal whereon history raises on high some _single_ hero whose name rings in all men's ears has to be composed and built up of thousands of _other_ heroes who have fought and fallen, nameless and unknown. The noblest deeds of heroism are done within four walls, not before the public gaze,--and as history keeps record only of the _men_ sacrificed, and, on the whole, writes only in spilt blood, doubtless our annals are grander and more beautiful in the eyes of the all-pervading spirit of the universe than in those of the history-writer; the great scenes of history are estimated according to the numbers of angels or devils on the stage, the _men_ not being taken into account.