The Bent Of Our Time Is Towards

The Interpretations Of Science Do Not Give Us This Intimate Sense Of Objects As The Interpretations Of Poetry Give It; They Appeal To A Limited Faculty, And Not To The Whole Man. It Is Not Linnaeus Or Cavendish Or Cuvier Who Gives Us The True Sense Of Animals, Or Water, Or Plants, Who Seizes Their Secret For Us, Who Makes Us Participate In Their Life; It Is Shakspeare [sic] … Wordsworth … Keats … Chateaubriand … Senancour.

But The Idea Of Science And Systematic Knowledge Is Wanting To Our Whole Instruction Alike, And Not Only To That Of Our Business Class ... In Nothing Do England And The Continent At The Present Moment More Strikingly Differ Than In The Prominence Which Is Now Given To The Idea Of Science There, And The Neglect In Which This Idea Still Lies Here; A Neglect So Great That We Hardly Even Know The Use Of The Word Science In Its Strict Sense, And Only Employ It In A Secondary And Incorrect Sense.

Force And Right Are The Governors Of This World; Force Till Right Is Ready.

Wandering Between Two Worlds, One Dead, The Other Powerless To Be Born.

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.