The Man Of Science, Like The Man

Small Minds Cannot Grasp Great Ideas; To Their Narrow Comprehension, Their Purblind Vision, Nothing Seems Really Great And Important But Themselves.

The Old Notion That The Savage Is The Freest Of Mankind Is The Reverse Of The Truth. He Is A Slave, Not Indeed To A Visible Master, But To The Past, To The Spirits Of His Dead Forefathers, Who Haunt His Steps From Birth To Death, And Rule Him With A Rod Of Iron.

Hence The Strong Attraction Which Magic And Science Alike Have Exercised On The Human Mind; Hence The Powerful Stimulus That Both Have Given To The Pursuit Of Knowledge. They Lure The Weary Enquirer, The Footsore Seeker, On Through The Wilderness Of Disappointment In The Present By Their Endless Promises Of The Future: They Take Him Up To The Top Of An Exceeding High Mountain And Show Him, Beyond The Dark Clouds And Rolling Mists At His Feet, A Vision Of The Celestial City, Far Off, It May Be, But Radiant With Unearthly Splendour, Bathed In The Light Of Dreams.

The Temple Of The Sylvan Goddess, Indeed, Has Vanished, And The King Of The Wood No Longer Stands Sentinel Over The Golden Bough.

It Is A Common Rule With Primitive People Not To Waken A Sleeper, Because His Soul Is Away And Might Not Have Time To Get Back.