drawn?—­where would be the incident, if all men, pursuing the quiet paths of non-interference with the rights, the lives, or the liberties of one another, spilt no blood, invaded no territory, robbed no lord of his lady, enslaved and made no captives in war?  A virtuous hero would be a useless personage both in play and poem—­and the spectator or reader would fall asleep over the utterance of stale apothegms.  What writer of sense, for instance, would dream of bringing up George Washington to figure in either of these forms before the world—­and how, if he did so, would he prevent reader or auditor from getting excessively tired, and perhaps disgusted, with one, whom all men are now agreed to regard as the hero of civilization?  Nor do I utter sentiments which are subjects either of doubt or disputation.  I could put the question in such a form as would bring the million to agree with me.  Look, for instance, at the execution of a criminal.  See the thousands that will assemble, day after day, after travelling miles for that single object, to gape and gaze upon the last agonizing pangs and paroxsyms of a fellow-creature—­not regarding for an instant the fatigue of their position, the press of the crowd, or the loss of a dinner—­totally insusceptible, it would seem, of the several influences of heat and cold, wind and rain, which at any other time would drive them to their beds or firesides.  The same motive which provokes this desire in the spectator, is the parent, to a certain extent, of the very crime which has led to the exhibition.  It is the morbid appetite, which sometimes grows to madness—­the creature of unregulated passions, ill-judged direction, and sometimes, even of the laws and usages of society itself, which is so much interested in the promotion of characteristics the very reverse.  It may be that I have more of this perilous stuff about me than the generality of mankind; but I am satisfied there are few of them, taught as I have been, and the prey of like influences, whose temper had been very different from mine.  The early and operating circumstances under which I grew up, all tended to the rank growth and encouragement of the more violent and vexing passions.  I was the victim of a tyranny, which, in the end, made me too a tyrant.  To feel, myself, and exercise the temper thus taught me, I had to acquire power in order to secure victims; and all my aims in life, all my desires, tended to this one pursuit.  Indifferent to me, alike, the spider who could sting, or the harmless butterfly whose only offensiveness is in the folly of his wearing a glitter which he can not take care of.  I was a merciless enemy, giving no quarter; and with an Ishmaelitish spirit, lifting my hand against all the tribes that were buzzing around me.”

“I believe you have spoken the truth, Guy, so far as your particular qualities of temper are concerned; for, had I undertaken to have spoken for you in relation to this subject, I should probably have said, though not to the same degree, the same thing; but the wonder with me is, how, with such feelings, you should have so long remained in quiet, and in some respects, perfectly harmless.”