“Acknowledgments are due rather to my cousin, Dr. Douglass, who called my attention to the passage.  The best of all things good abide with him; and out of his overflowing store, he shares with the needy.  Only last night he reminded me of an illustration of the vanitas vanitatum of human fame and national gratitude, to be found over yonder in the necropolis.  Less than a hundred and forty years after his death, Archimedes was so completely forgotten by the city he had immortalized, that Syracuse denied he was buried on her soil; and a foreigner had the honor of clearing away rubbish and brambles, in order to show the grave to his own countrymen.”

Leighton Douglass handed to his cousin a bunch of the delicate lilac blossoms of acanthus, tied with a wisp of some ribbon-like grass, and taking off his spectacles, replied: 

“Leo unduly exalts my memory at the expense of her own; and we have all levied heavily on her fund of topographical accuracy.”

“If I travel much longer with two such learned and philosophical scholars, I shall inevitably degenerate into an intellectual Dodder,” yawned Alma.

“Into a what?” asked her father.

“A Dodder, sir.  Pray, papa, be more considerate than to force Doctor Douglass to believe that instead of listening to the sermon he preached us last year, you either slept ignominiously throughout its delivery, or else allowed your unregenerate thoughts to dwell on those devices of Lucifer, ‘puts,’ ’calls, ‘spreads,’ ’corners, ‘spots’ and ‘futures’.  Of course you remember that he believes in evolution?  There was a time, even in my extremely recent day, when that word was more frightful to the orthodox than a ton of nitro-glycerine; was to the elect, a fouler abomination even than opera bouffe and the can can.  But ’the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns’, and now it appears that the immortal soul of us must be evolved, somewhat in the same fashion as protoplasm, and unless we fight for ‘survival’ elsewhere, we shall not be numbered among the spirited ‘fittest’, but degenerate into parasites, dodders, backsliders.  So, drawing nutriment from the Doctor’s historic brains, and from Leo’s, I fall back into worse than a dodder, a torpid violator of the Law of Work, a hopeless Sacculina!  Doctor Douglass, it was the bravest hour of your life when you stood up in—­church pulpit, and told us the scientists whom we were wont to regard as more dreadful than the cannibals and Calmucks, are only a devoted sect of truth seekers, preaching from older texts, and drawing nearer and nearer to the kingdom of Heaven.  To throw that ethical bomb, required more courage than Balaklava.”

“Mine was merely a feeble attempt to follow out the analogical reasoning of one of the most original and scientific thinkers of our day in Great Britain; but the fact that you recall so correctly the line of argument in a sermon delivered more than a year ago, is certainly complimentary assurance of at least approximate success in my effort.”