without pay, to the loftiest pedestal of Athenian fame?  What was the spirit of the truths he taught?  Was it objective or subjective truth; the way to become rich and comfortable, or the search for the indefinite, the infinite, the eternal,—­Utopia, not Middlesex,—­that which fed the wants of the immaterial soul, and enabled it to rise above temptation and vulgar rewards?  What raised Plato to the highest pinnacle of intellectual life?  Was it definite and practical knowledge of outward phenomena; or was it “a longing after love, in the contemplation of which the mortal soul sustains itself, and becomes participant in the glories of immortality”?  What were realities to Anselm, Bernard, and Bonaventura?  What gave beauty and placidity to Descartes and Leibnitz and Kant?  It may be very dignified for a modern savant to sit serenely on his tower of observation, indifferent to all the lofty speculations of the great men of bygone ages; yet those profound questions pertaining to the [Greek:  logos] and the [Greek:  ta onta], which had such attractions for Augustine and Pascal and Calvin, did have as real bearing on human life and on what is best worth knowing, as the scales of a leuciscus cephalus or the limbs of a magnified animalculus, or any of the facts of which physical science can boast.  The wonders of science are great, but so also are the secrets of the soul, the mysteries of the spiritual life, the truths which come from divine revelation.  Whatever most dignifies humanity, and makes our labors sweet, and causes us to forget our pains, and kindles us to lofty contemplations, and prompts us to heroic sacrifice, is the most real and the most useful.  Even the leaves of a barren and neglected philosophy may be in some important respects of more value than all the boasted fruit of utilitarian science.  Is that which is most useful always the most valuable,—­that, I mean, which gives the highest pleasure?  Do we not plant our grounds with the acacia, the oak, the cedar, the elm, as well as with the apple, the pear, and the cherry?  Are not flowers and shrubs which beautify the lawn as desirable as beans and turnips and cabbages?  Is not the rose or tulip as great an addition to even a poor man’s cottage as his bed of onions or patch of potatoes?  What is the scale to measure even mortal happiness?  What is the marketable value of friendship or of love?  What makes the dinner of herbs sometimes more refreshing than the stalled ox?  What is the material profit of a first love?  What is the value in tangible dollars and cents of a beautiful landscape, or a speaking picture, or a marble statue, or a living book, or the voice of eloquence, or the charm of earliest bird, or the smile of a friend, or the promise of immortality?  In what consisted the real glory of the country we are never weary of quoting,—­the land of Phidias and Pericles and Demosthenes?  Was it not in immaterial ideas, in patriotism, in heroism, in conceptions of ideal beauty, in speculations on