But the bacteriologists further discovered that the typhoid
bacillus was present in water which was not infectious, and in
persons who were not ill, or had never been ill, with typhoid.

So now a theory is propounded that a healthy typhoid bacillus
does not cause typhoid, but that it is only when the bacillus
is itself sick of a fever, or, in other words, is itself the
prey of some infinitely minuter organisms, which feed on it
alone, that it works harm to mortal men.

The bacillus is so small that one requires a powerful microscope to
see him, and his blood may be infested with bacilli as small to him
as he is to us.

And there are millions, and more likely billions, of suns!

Talk about Aladdin's palace, Sinbad's valley of diamonds, Macbeth's
witches, or the Irish fairies! How petty are their exploits, how
tawdry are their splendours, how paltry are their riches, when we
compare them to the romance of science.

When did a poet conceive an idea so vast and so astounding as the
theory of evolution? What are a few paltry, lumps of crystallised
carbon compared to a galaxy of a million million suns? Did any
Eastern inventor of marvels ever suggest such a human feat as
that accomplished by the men who have, during the last handful of
centuries, spelt out the mystery of the universe? These scientists
have worked miracles before which those of the ancient priests and
magicians are mere tricks of hanky-panky.