For Man Is Not The

A Dandy Is A Clothes-wearing Man--a Man Whose Trade, Office, And Existence Consist In The Wearing Of Clothes. Every Faculty Of His Soul, Spirit, Person And Purse Is Heroically Consecrated To This One Object--the Wearing Of Clothes, Wisely And Well; So That, As Others Dress To Live, He Lives To Dress.

Alas! While The Body Stands So Broad And Brawny, Must The Soul Lie Blinded, Dwarfed, Stupefied, Almost Annihilated? Alas! This Was, Too, A Breath Of God, Bestowed In Heaven, But On Earth Never To Be Unfolded!

All Work Is As Seed Sown; It Grows And Spreads, And Sows Itself Anew.

When We Can Drain The Ocean Into Mill-ponds, And Bottle Up The Force Of Gravity, To Be Sold By Retail, In Gas Jars; Then May We Hope To Comprehend The Infinitudes Of Man's Soul Under Formulas Of Profit And Loss; And Rule Over This Too, As Over A Patent Engine, By Checks, And Valves, And Balances.

Work Is The Grand Cure Of All The Maladies And Miseries That Ever Beset Mankind.