globe.  Always and everywhere, it seems to me, have poor human beings been tempted to eat of some “tree of knowledge,” that they may be, even for an hour, as gods; wise, but with a false wisdom; careless, but with a frantic carelessness; and happy, but with a happiness which, when the excitement is past, leaves too often—­as with that hapless pair in Eden—­depression, shame, and fear.  Everywhere, and in all ages, as far as I can ascertain, has man been inventing stimulants and narcotics to supply that want of vitality of which he is so painfully aware; and has asked nature, and not God, to clear the dull brain, and comfort the weary spirit.

This has been, and will be perhaps for many a century to come, almost the most fearful failing of this poor, exceptional, over-organised, diseased, and truly fallen being called man, who is in doubt daily whether he be a god or an ape; and in trying wildly to become the former, ends but too often in becoming the latter.

For man, whether savage or civilised, feels, and has felt in every age, that there is something wrong with him.  He usually confesses this fact—­as is to be expected—­of his fellow-men, rather than of himself; and shows his sense that there is something wrong with them by complaining of, hating, and killing them.  But he cannot always conceal from himself the fact that he, too, is wrong, as well as they; and as he will not usually kill himself, he tries wild ways to make himself at least feel—­if not to be—­somewhat “better.”  Philosophers may bid him be content; and tell him that he is what he ought to be, and what nature has made him.  But he cares nothing for the philosophers.  He knows, usually, that he is not what he ought to be; that he carries about with him, in most cases, a body more or less diseased and decrepit, incapable of doing all the work which he feels that he himself could do, or expressing all the emotions which he himself longs to express; a dull brain and dull senses, which cramp the eager infinity within him; as—­so Goethe once said with pity—­the horse’s single hoof cramps the fine intelligence and generosity of his nature, and forbids him even to grasp an object, like the more stupid cat, and baser monkey.  And man has a self, too, within, from which he longs too often to escape, as from a household ghost; who pulls out, at unfortunately rude and unwelcome hours, the ledger of memory.  And so when the tempter—­be he who he may—­says to him “Take this, and you will ’feel better’—­Take this, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil:”  then, if the temptation was, as the old story says, too much for man while healthy and unfallen, what must it be for his unhealthy and fallen children?  In vain we say to man—­

   “’Tis life, not death, for which you pant;
   ’Tis life, whereof your nerves are scant;
   More life, and fuller, that you want.”

And your tree of knowledge is not the tree of life:  it is, in every case, the tree of death; of decrepitude, madness, misery.  He prefers the voice of the tempter—­“Thou shalt not surely die.”  Nay, he will say at last,—­“Better be as gods awhile, and die:  than be the crawling, insufficient thing I am; and live.”