It may be doubted whether a love of truth or of error, for _their own sake_, is a primary principle of our moral nature. A love of one’s own happiness, or interest, or reputation, in a word, of one’s self, is primary. Truth and error are regarded with complaisance or aversion, accordingly as they oppose or favor the interests of men. If there were but one being in the universe, it would be of little moment whether he passed his existence in truth or falsehood. In society, he, whose basis is falsehood, is derided by his fellows, and his interests are endangered. As truth, on the whole, is most conducive to the interests of men, it is most generally sought after. Few are willing to oppose a fashionable error. There are portions of every man’s whole life, which he passes in error, without being in the least concerned. Many minds are so preoccupied, that they _cannot_ examine the evidence requisite for the admission of a new truth. More are so prejudiced that they will not. With many men a fear of results is stronger than love of truth, and they are induced by a prospect of consequences, to abandon the pursuit. An entire devotion to truth itself, to truth for its own sake, is a rare sight, and one of high moral sublimity. A FATHER TO HIS CHILD.[1] I cannot say, I cannot say, my beautiful and wild, I’ve ever seen so fair a one as thou my pretty child-- A form so full of elegance, a cheek where roses blow, And a forehead where the glossy curls seem braided over snow-- A lip whence sounds of music gush, that might with ease unsphere Some spirit from its airy halls and witch that spirit here. When first thy mother gave thee me, my beautiful and wild, And others sought to gaze upon and bless the pretty child, And thy soft lip to mine was press’d, and thy soft hand I felt, And felt all of a father’s heart within my bosom melt; I know I heaved a sigh, for there was sadness in my joy-- Thou wert so very beautiful, my smiling little boy. Where’er thou go’st, there seems to go a gladness, and a life, Which all unfitted is for this dark world of sin and strife; Thou dost remind me of the flowers that are when Spring comes on, Thou dost remind me of the light when comes and goes the sun; Of brooks, and falling waters, when they with the pebbles toy-- Of all that’s gay and beautiful, my smiling little boy. I mingle with the busied world, and when I find it vain, I turn me to my happy hearth and little boy again; I love to have him shout to me, I love his airy call, I love to hear his little step go patting through the hall; I love to take him on my knee and fold him into rest, As doth the parent bird the dove she shelters with her breast.