Notwithstanding this, fear is one of the strongest impulses of our nature--fear of discovery, shame, or punishment when we have done wrong: fear of pain, danger, or death. Dr. Johnson said in conversation: "Fear is one of the passions of humanity of which it is impossible to divest it. You all remember that the Emperor Charles V., when he read upon the tomb of a Spanish nobleman, 'Here lies one who never knew fear,' wittily observed, 'Then he never snuffed a candle with his fingers.'" In opposition to this we may quote an anecdote told of Lord Howe, when in command of the Channel Fleet. One night he was suddenly awakened by an officer, who, in great trepidation, told him the ship was on fire close to the powder-room; the admiral coolly replied: "If it is so, sir, we shall very soon know it." Some minutes afterwards the lieutenant returned, and told his lordship he had no occasion to be afraid, for the fire was extinguished. "Afraid!" replied Lord Howe, hastily; "what do you mean by that, sir? I never was afraid in my life." No emotions of the human frame are more opposite than cowardice and courage, each taken in its simple sense, yet both spring from the same sources--physical temperament early training. We do not make our own nervous system, which is often grievously tampered with or perverted by silly, ill-conditioned nurses, servants, and teachers, who frightened children with tales of bugbears, monsters and hobgoblins, until they scream if left in the dark for a moment, and dare not sleep in a room by themselves. Pillory or flogging at the cart's tail would be too mild a punishment for those moral Thugs, who strangle wholesome feelings in the first dawn of their existence, and supply their place with baneful impressions, which, strongly implanted in early youth, grow and strengthen to a period of life when reason on to subdue them, but frequently fails to do so. Viewed in this light, constitutional timidity is a misfortune rather than a crime, however contemptible it may be considered; while mere animal insensibility to danger, which readily calls for admiration, has no claim to rank as a virtue. We speak not here of the moral courage which may be engrafted on a nature originally pusillanimous, by pride, education or a sense of duty and station. Henry IV., of France, and Frederick the Great, of Prussia, are illustrious examples of this victory of over matter. Both were instinctively afraid of danger, and both are recorded as evincing perfect self-possession and displaying prodigies of valor in many a hotly-contested field. Henry's flesh quivered the first time he found himself in action, although his heart was firm. "Villanous nature, I will make thee ashamed of thyself!" he exclaimed, as he spurred his horse through a {161} breach before which the bravest veterans paused; and ever afterward the white plume was recognized as the rallying point of battle. Frederick turned from the field of Molwitz, and left