THE SERENE EVANGEL OF SCIENCE 167 



almost as familiar as the cheery plots of our homely gardens. The 

 bewildering mysteries of radioactivity may become as commonplace 

 as ordinary phenomena of light and heat. Similarly, the world of 

 biology will open many channels of aesthetic enjoyment. Even if 

 graceful radiolaria and thalamophora do not quite justify the enthusi- 

 astic claim that they "transcend all the creations of the human mind 

 by their peculiar beauty," they will none the less brighten the eye and 

 gladden the heart. The picturesque course of evolution, the upward 

 march through boundless time, will be emotionally realized as well as 

 intellectually accepted. Each day scientific truth will become a 

 more natural part of man's equipment, and will be transmuted by 

 poet and artist into charming verse or enchaining picture. 



IV 



And this brings me to the thought that in the dawn heralded by 

 Science, when men shall be well educated and well nurtured, Art and 

 Beauty will at last come into their kingdom. Today the pain and 

 bitterness of life make artistic enjoyment an unheard or empty phrase 

 for most of our fellow creatures, and this in turn makes it a halting, 

 hesitant pleasure for all thinking men. 



For since the world by sorrow is denied, 

 Even the Most Beautiful 

 Must our sorrow share. 



Nevertheless, with all deference to the great Rodin and other 

 unseasonable mourners, Art is not dead. We do believe still in the 

 wonder and the beauty and the power whose forms are faintly descried 

 above all the want and ugliness and ignorance. Even when every 

 passing day is aimless and hopeless for millions of our brothers, a few 

 are ever seeking the soul beneath the form, aspiring toward the 

 unseen and unheard beauty that breathes in all beautiful things. 

 They catch faint gleams thereof in statue, or painting, or noble build- 

 ing. They hear its echo in song of bird or human voice, in pealing 

 organ or tinkling brook. They dream of it with some supreme master 

 of prose, or float out toward its far-off divine abode on the winged 

 words of some beloved poet. But withal, even in their most exalted 



