In conclusion: the benefit of thought is most manifest, in that proper self-confidence, without which, there is no real dignity of character. To be a growing man, is to be a confident one; and the secret of greatness, lies in the consciousness of the ability to be great. We should be sorry to advocate folly,—modesty, we are taught from our cradles, is a virtue,—but by some unaccountable process, the thing has got to signifying something, better designated sheepishness; and hence, we have an _animal_ virtue. Different from these, however, are our ideas of modesty. True modesty is that proper appreciation of one’s own powers, which leads him never to offend, either by bashfulness or presumption: now, who so likely to hit the mark, as he who knows the strength of the bow. The workings of a great mind, conscious of its capacities—and its aspirations for eminence, are, in distinction to the greatness of little men, as opposite as possible—the one a mighty river, always overflowing, and enriching the soil through which it moves, with its abundant and generous fullness—the other an insignificant stream, always within its banks, as grudging the smallest pittance to the scene around. To be a modest man in a certain usage, is to be an ignorant one—for to underrate one’s self, and be honest in it, is to show ignorance of self; and he who knows not himself, has skipped the first page in the book of wisdom: but to be a modest man in a right sense, is to be a wise one—for it is a knowledge of self (which we suppose constitutes a wise man) that enables one to seize upon and retain, his proper station in society. It is this latter kind of modesty which is commendable. It is that of great men. It is that which, meet it where we will, we love to praise. Milton could stop, mid-word in one of his loudest invectives against the rotten fabric of Episcopacy, and speak of himself as ‘a poet sitting in the high regions of his fancy, with his garlands and singing robes about him’—and, with voice like the wild note of prophecy, proclaim ‘the great argument,’ as yet sleeping in the darkness of his vision; and of his confidence to produce a work ‘that posterity should not willingly let die.’ Was this folly? and yet, it was a full appreciation of what the great God had given him. No! It was knowledge—knowledge at home—knowledge gained by thought—the knowledge of energies proud enough, to build up a colossal monument to posterity—_and he did it_. These are some of the advantages, we think, of a substantial knowledge of ourselves; and when we look at the age, and see how headlong it is, and how dangerously practical it is becoming; too much cannot be said, and too loudly it cannot be spoken, that there is need of more reflection, and more forethought. ODE. THE BIRTH OF POESY.