THE NEW WORLD AND THE NEW MAN.

Half a dozen rivulets leap down the western declivity of the Rocky Mountains, and unite; four thousand miles away the mighty Missouri debouches into the Mexican Gulf as the result of that junction.  Did the rivulets propose or plan the river?  Not at all; but they knew, each, its private need to find a lower level; the universal law they obeyed accomplished the rest.  So is it with the great human streams.  Mighty beginnings do not lie in the minds of the beginners.  History is a perpetual surprise, ever developing results of which men were the agents without being the expectants.  Individual actors, with respect to the master claim of humanity, are, for the most part, not unlike that fleet hound which, enticed by a tempting prospect of meat, outran a locomotive engine all the way from Lowell to Boston, and won a handsome wager for his owner, while intent only on a dinner for himself.  Humanity is served out of all proportion to the intention of service.  Even the noble souls, never wanting in history, who follow not a bait, but belief, see only in imperfect survey the connections and relations of their deeds.  Each is faithfully obeying his own inward vocation, a voice unheard by other soul than his own, and the inability to calculate consequences makes the preeminent grandeur of his position; or he is urged by the high inevitable impulse to publish or verify an idea:  the Divine Destiny works in their hearts, and plans over their heads.

Socrates felt a sacred impulse to test his neighbors, what they knew and were:  this is such account of his life as he himself can give at its close.  His contemporaries generally saw in him an imperturbable and troublesome questioner, fatally sure to come at the secret of every man’s character and credence, whom no subterfuge could elude, no compliments flatter, no menaces appall,—­suspected also of some emancipation from the popular superstitions:  this is the account of him which they are able to give.  At twenty-three centuries’ distance we see in him the source of a river of spiritual influence, that yet streams on, more than a Missouri, in the minds of men,—­more than a Missouri, for it not only flows as an open current, but, percolating beneath the surface, and coming up in distinct and distant fountains, it becomes the hidden source of many a constant tide in the faiths and philosophies of nations.

The veil covers the eyes of spectators and agents alike.  Columbus returns, freighted with wondrous tidings, to the Spanish shore; the nation rises and claps its hands; the nation kneels to bless its gods at all its shrines, and chants its delight in many a choral Te Deum.  What, then, do they think is gained?  Why, El Dorado!  Have they not gained a whole world of gold and silver mines to buy jewelled cloaks and feathers and frippery with?  Have they not gained a cornucopia of savages, to support new