There Is Something In Man Which Your

Neither Had Watt Of The Steam Engine A Heroic Origin, Any Kindred With The Princes Of This World. The Princes Of This World Were Shooting Their Partridges... While This Man With Blackened Fingers, With Grim Brow, Was Searching Out, In His Workshop, The Fire-secret.

Have Not I Myself Known Five Hundred Living Soldiers Sabred Into Crows' Meat For A Piece Of Glazed Cotton, Which They Call Their Flag; Which Had You Sold It At Any Market-cross, Would Not Have Brought Above Three Groschen?

I Think Scandinavian Paganism, To Us Here, Is More Interesting Than Any Other. It Is, For One Thing, The Latest; It Continued In These Regions Of Europe Till The Eleventh Century; 800 Years Ago The Norwegians Were Still Worshipers Of Odin. It Is Interesting Also As The Creed Of Our Fathers; The Men Whose Blood Still Runs In Our Veins, Whom Doubtless We Still Resemble In So Many Ways.

All That Mankind Has Done, Thought Or Been: It Is Lying As In Magic Preservation In The Pages Of Books.

The World Is An Old Woman, And Mistakes Any Gilt Farthing For A Gold Coin; Whereby Being Often Cheated, She Will Thenceforth Trust Nothing But The Common Copper.