Time, indeed, is like a deep and rapid river; whatever is trifling and light, is precipitately borne on its surface, and what is valuable and weighty, sinks to its bottom. Hence, the superficial observer collects nothing more than the rubbish, which it is forever devolving into the abyss of oblivion; while the profound and contemplative genius explores the depths of the stream, and accounts himself happy if he can gather any of the pearl which its bottom contains. Thus the discoveries of experimental philosophy, float like straws on the surface, while the wisdom of Pythagoras and Plato lies concealed in the depths of the river. I am well aware it will be said, that the reverse of this similitude is true; that the modern philosophy is the pearl, and the ancient the stubble; and that the former will be celebrated by posterity, and increase in reputation when the latter shall scarcely be known. But let us attentively examine the truth of this assertion, and shut our ears to the unsubstantial echoes of popular applause. Is it reasonable to suppose that men of such exalted abilities, as the Pythagoric and Platonic philosophers possessed, even in the estimation of their opponents, accompanied with the greatest advantages of birth and fortune, and the most unwearied attention, have discovered nothing valuable, and have left nothing behind them, but jargon and reveries? Is it to be supposed, that in an age when philosophy was almost adored; when it was esteemed by kings, cultivated by noblemen, and even reverenced by the vulgar; when empire was relinquished for its pursuit, and every danger encountered for its possession: is it to be supposed, that nothing but delusion was the offspring of so glorious a period, and nothing but folly the reward of such generous endurance? Or shall we say, that the discovery of truth was reserved for the age of experiment; and that she is alone to be apprehended in the infinite labyrinth of particulars? That she is to be investigated with the corporeal senses, and not with the powers of intellect; and that the crucible, the alembic, and the air-pump, are the only mediums of detection? If this be the case, truth is material, and may be calcined, distilled, and rarefied, like any other corporeal substance. It is no longer eternal and immutable, but perishable and fluctuating; the phantastic subject of sensible inspection, and not the steady and real object of the permanent energies of science. Shall we call this the age of philosophy, in which talents are prostituted for sustenance, and learning submits to the impudence of wealth? Shall we say that we have strengthened the cause of philosophy, by demolishing her schools; and increased her independence, by enlarging the empire of commerce? Where shall we find the man, who is at present reverenced for the profession of teaching speculative truth, or indeed who teaches it at all? Or should we chance to meet with such an obsolete character,