Though, however, the hearts of the pair were thus united, there was not an equal accordance in all their sentiments and opinions. This, however, though productive of numerous discussions, never led to acrimonious disputes. They agreed to disagree. Nature had cast the brother and sister in the same mental mould, to borrow a phrenological term (which I do with respect); the organization was equal. The same fine sense and kindliness of disposition in both; but circumstances had favoured in different degrees the development of their respective qualities. Benevolence, veneration, and ideality must have been large in both, though the captain had evidently been at pains to curb the vagaries of the latter. He had left his home a mere boy, with his mind almost a blank sheet, on which anything might have been inscribed. Whilst others his contemporaries plunged into idleness and dissipation, he, by some chance, flew to the solace of books. In them he studied that mystery of mysteries—man, comparing, as life advanced, the living manifestations of his character with all that he found recorded of his acts; he perused the works of historians, theologians, and metaphysicians, on all sides of all questions; and arrived at one grand conclusion, which is, that truth is a very hard thing to get at, and, like the ideal good of Goldsmith’s Traveller, “allures from far, and as we follow, flies.” He certainly sought it ardently, though he could not felicitate himself, he said, exactly in having yet found the “true truth.” A self-taught genius, who thought vigorously, and expressed himself strongly, he was, no doubt, somewhat of an Utopian; at least such I know Captain Marpeet thought him.