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This sees the light with the earnest, single hope, that it may conciliate prejudice, disarm opposition, and peradventure, were it in a single instance, advance the temporal and eternal interests of mankind.
MYSELF. Say, friendly Daïmon, shall I publish this or no ?
DAÏMON. Why ask : breathes it not a tender interest in man?
MYSELF. But man asks it not. Who cares for the spirit, or its concerns ?
DAÏMON. Is it not better than convulsive romance — pandering to appetite, folly, fear ?
MYSELF. But man loves what is of earthearthly; not what is of the spirit — spiritual.
DAÏMON. Appeal, then, to his better part, thou heart so full of care.
MYSELF. But he will not hearken.
DAÏMON. Remind him of his immortal portion.
MYSELF. He would laugh me to scorn!
DAÏMON. Declare thy sacred purpose; the truths that concern all time.
MYSELF. Are there not books enow - do not myriads ply the spirits calling? Oh, thou guiding immortal principle, say, do they earn their hire ?
DAÏMON. It matters not. A duty omitted, perchance performed, by others, absolves thee not.
MYSELF. Then be it so.
I am a doctor. I live in a village on the remote western coast of Ireland, but have travelled somewhat in my time. Having served my country in the humble capacity of surgeon to a ship of war, I enjoy a pension, which, if small, maintains a cheerful log upon my hearth, with viands warm and wholesome on my table. I dabble in matters of philology and antiquity picked up in my rambles. If the weather be fine, a rod and gun beguile the way to my poor patients, whom, in this sequestered region, I am happy to serve without a fee.
The scenery around me, I believe, is accounted fine; and during the season tourists drop in to