the ages of myth and miracle; in other words, that God is really immanent in his universe, and inseparable from it; that we have been in heaven and under the celestial laws all our lives, and knew it not.  Science thus kills religion, poetry, and romance only so far as it dispels our illusions and brings us back from the imaginary to the common and the near at hand.  It discounts heaven in favor of earth.  It should make us more at home in the world, and more conscious of the daily beauty and wonders that surround us, and, if it does not, the trouble is probably in the ages of myth and fable that lie behind us and that have left their intoxicating influence in our blood.

We are willing to be made out of the dust of the earth when God makes us, the God we have made ourselves out of our dreams and fears and aspirations, but we are not willing to be made out of the dust of the earth when the god called Evolution makes us.  An impersonal law or process we cannot revere or fear or worship or exalt; we can only study it and put it to the test.  We can love or worship only personality.  This is why science puts such a damper upon us; it banishes personality, as we have heretofore conceived it, from the universe.  The thunder is no longer the voice of God, the earth is no longer his footstool.  Personality appears only in man; the universe is not inhuman, but unhuman.  It is this discovery that we recoil from, and blame science for; and until, in the process of time, we shall have adjusted our minds, and especially our emotions, to it, mankind will still recoil from it.

We love our dreams, our imaginings, as we love a prospect before our houses.  We love an outlook into the ideal, the unknown in our lives.  But we love also to feel the solid ground beneath our feet.

Whether life loses in charm as we lose our illusions, and whether it gains in power and satisfaction as we more and more reach solid ground in our beliefs, is a question that will be answered differently by different persons.

We have vastly more solid knowledge about the universe amid which we live than had our fathers, but are we happier, better, stronger?  May it not be said that our lives consist, not in the number of things we know any more than in the number of things we possess, but in the things we love, in the depth and sincerity of our emotions, and in the elevation of our aspirations?  Has not science also enlarged the sphere of our love, and given us new grounds for wonder and admiration?  It certainly has, but it as certainly has put a damper upon our awe, our reverence, our veneration.  However valuable these emotions are, and whatever part they may have played in the development of character in the past, they seem doomed to play less and less part in the future.  Poetry and religion, so called, seem doomed to play less and less part in the life of the race in the future.  We shall still dream and aspire, but we shall not tremble and worship as in the past.