But that common sense is so scarce an article, and that the various superstitions of the nursery pervade the opinions and cramp the enquiries, even of after life—but for this, the very statement of the question might suffice to obtain for it the assent of every rational being. Nothing so elevates man above the brute creation, as the power he obtains over his instincts. The lower animal follows them blindly, unreflectingly. The serpent gorges himself; the bull fights, even to death, with his rival of the pasture; the dog makes deadly war for a bone. They know nothing of progressive improvement. The elephant or the beaver of the nineteenth century, are just as wise, and no wiser, than the elephant or the beaver of two thousand years ago. Man alone has the power to improve, cultivate, elevate his nature, from generation to generation. He alone can control his instincts by reflection of consequences, and regulate his passions by the precepts of wisdom. It is strange, that even at this period of the world, we should have to remind each other, that _all_ knowledge of facts is useful; or, at the least, cannot be injurious. The knowledge of some facts may be unimportant; the knowledge of none is mischievous. A human being is a puppet—a slave, if his ignorance is to be the safeguard of his virtue. Nor shall we know where to stop, if we follow up this principle. Shall we give our sons lessons in mechanics? but they may thereby learn to pick locks. Shall we teach them to read? but they may thus obtain access to falsehood and folly. Shall we instruct them in writing? but they may become forgers. Such, in effect, was the reasoning of men in the dark ages. When Walter Scott puts in the mouth of Lord Douglas, on the discovery of Marmion’s treachery the following exclamation, it is strictly in accordance with the spirit and prevailing opinions of the times: “A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the king praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line: So swore I, and so swear I still, Let my boy bishop fret his fill.” But the days are gone by when ignorance may be the safeguard of virtue. The _only_ rock-foundation for virtue is knowledge. There is _no_ fact, in physics or in morals, that ought to be concealed from the enquiring mind. Let that parent, who thinks to secure his sons’ honesty or his daughters’ innocence, by keeping back from them facts—let that parent know, that he is building up their morality on a sandy foundation. The rains and the floods of the world’s influence shall beat upon that virtue, and great shall be the fall thereof.