to them of some resemblance, unnoticed before, between mankind and the inferior creation, and would be happy to find that the resemblance is complete. It is very true, Mr. Pope's "Poor Indian, with untutor'd mind," had no objection to his dogs going to heaven with him: "And thinks, admitted to that equal sky, "His faithful dog shall bear him company." This is not an abject, but it is a modest sentiment. But our high-minded philosophers, who, with Beatrice in the play, "cannot brook obedience to a wayward piece of marl," if it be in the shape of a Prince, have far other notions of the matter. Indeed they are not yet agreed about it. Mr. de la Metherie hopes, that before the enlightened Republic of France has got into its teens, he shall be able to tell his fellow-citizens, in his _Journal de Physique_, that particular form of crystallization which men have been accustomed to call God.--Dr. Priestley again deduces all intelligence from elastic undulations, and will probably think, that his own great discoveries have been the quiverings of some fiery marsh _miasma_. While Pope's poor Indian hopes to take his dog to heaven with him, these Illuminators hope to die like dogs, and that both soul and body shall be as if they never had been. Is not this a melancholy result of all our Illumination? It is of a piece with the termination of the ideal Philosophy, viz. professed and total ignorance. Should not this make us start back and hesitate, before we pout like wayward children at the hardships of civil subordination, and before we make a sacrifice to our ill humour of all that we value ourselves for? Does it not carry ridicule and absurdity in its forehead?--Such assertions of personal worth and dignity, (always excepting Princes and Priests,) and such abject acknowledgments of worthlessness.--Does not this, of itself, show that there is some radical fault in the whole? It has all arisen from what they have called _Illumination_, and this turns out to be worse than darkness--But we also know that it has all arisen from self-conceited discontent, and that it has been brought to its present state by the rage of speculation. We may venture to put the question to any man's conscience--whether discontent did not precede his doubts about his own nature and whether he has not _encouraged_ the train of argument that tended to degrade him? "Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought."--Should not this make us distrust, at least, the operations of this faculty of our mind, and try to moderate and check this darling propensity.--It seems a misfortune of the age--for we see that it is a natural source of disturbance and revolution.