A Fine Lady; By Which Term I

In The Four Hundred And Thirteenth Year Of The Christian Era, Some Three Hundred Miles Above Alexandria, The Young Monk Philammon Was Sitting On The Edge Of A Low Range Of Inland Cliffs, Crested With Drifting Sand.

I Can Conceive Few Human States More Enviable Than That Of The Man To Whom, Panting In The Foul Laboratory, Or Watching For His Life Under The Tropic Forest, Isis Shall For A Moment Lift Her Sacred Veil, And Show Him, Once And For Ever, The Thing He Dreamed Not Of; Some Law, Or Even Mere Hint Of A Law, Explaining One Fact; But Explaining With It A Thousand More, Connecting Them All With Each Other And With The Mighty Whole, Till Order And Meaning Shoots Through Some Old Chaos Of Scattered Observations.

Madame Nature Allows No Dangerous Classes, In The Modern Sense. She Has, Doubtless For Some Wise Reason, No Mercy For The Weak. She Rewards Each Organism According To Its Works; And If Anything Grows Too Weak Or Stupid To Take Care Of Itself, She Gives It Its Due Deserts By Letting It Die And Disappear.

Do Not Fancy, As Too Many Do, That Thou Canst Praise God By Singing Hymns To Him In Church Once A Week, And Disobeying Him All The Week Long. He Asks Of Thee Works As Well As Words; And More, He Asks Of Thee Works First And Words After.

In The Light Of Fuller Day, Of Purer Science, Holier Laws.