The World Is God's World, After All.

So Fleet The Works Of Men, Back To Their Earth Again;ancient And Holy Things Fade Like A Dream.

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.

You Are Literally Filled With The Fruit Of Your Own Devices, With Rats And Mice And Such Small Deer, Paramecia, And Entomostraceæ, And Kicking Things With Horrid Names, Which You See In Microscopes At The Polytechnic, And Rush Home And Call For Brandy-without The Water-stone, And Gravel, And Dyspepsia, And Fragments Of Your Own Muscular Tissue Tinged With Your Own Bile.

If I Am Ever Obscure In My Expressions, Do Not Fancy That Therefore I Am Deep. If I Were Really Deep, All The World Would Understand, Though They Might Not Appreciate. The Perfectly Popular Style Is The Perfectly Scientific One. To Me An Obscurity Is A Reason For Suspecting A Fallacy.

There Will Be No True Freedom Without Virtue, No True Science Without Religion, No True Industry Without The Fear Of God And Love To Your Fellow Citizens.