Nature Is Thought Immersed In

The Fable Runs That The Gods Mix Our Pains And Pleasure In One Cup, And Thus Mingle For Us The Adulterate Immortality Which We Alone Are Permitted Here To Enjoy. Voluptuous Raptures, Could We Prolong These At Pleasure, Would Dissipate And Dissolve Us. A Sip Is The Most That Mortals Are Permitted From Any Goblet Of Delight.

Truth Is Sensitive And Jealous Of The Least Encroachment Upon Its Sacredness.

Science Has Grown Frightfully Audacious In These Days -- Swift-footed, Ponderous, Careering Over Her Iron Ways With Unslacking Pace. This Rampant Dragon, On Which I Am Mounted, See How He Bends His Once Stiff Neck To His Rider, Champing His Checked Bit And Pawing The Dust, Impatient To Leap Around The Globe. Genius Is Prescient, Foresees Its Own Might. Man Is Striving Through These Iron-ribbed, Steam-sped Hippogriffs, To Recover His Lost Ubiquity And Omnipotence, And Threatens Soon To Grasp In His Ample Palm, And Fix With Flaming Eye-ball, The Elemental Forces!

What Higher Praise Can We Bestow On Any One Than To Say Of Him That He Harbors Another's Prejudices With A Hospitality So Cordial As To Give Him, For The Time, The Sympathy Next Best To, If Indeed It Be Not Edification In, Charity Itself. For What Disturbs More And Distracts Mankind Than The Uncivil Manners That Cleave Man From Man?

Genius Has Oftenest Been The Pariah Of His Time, The Unhoused God Whom None Cared For, Unnamed Till They Whom He First Promoted, Enriched And Honored, Found It Honorable To Own Their Benefactor.