Men Must Work, And Women Must Weep.

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.

Now, To Tell My Story--if Not As It Ought To Be Told, At Least As I Can Tell It,--i Must Go Back Sixteen Years, To The Days When Whitbury Boasted Of Forty Coaches Per Diem, Instead Of One Railway, And Set Forth How In Its Southern Suburb, There Stood Two Pleasant House Side By Side, With Their Gardens Sloping Down To The Whit, And Parted From Each Other Only By The High Brick Fruit-wall, Through Which There Used To Be A Door Of Communication; For The Two Occupiers Were Fast Friends.

Life Is Too Short For Mean Anxieties.

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.

The Invitation, To Tom Highes What We Can We Will Be, Honest Englishmen. Do The Work That's Nearest, Though It's Dull At Whiles, Helping, When We Meet Them, Lame Dogs Over Stiles.