'Rise, daughter of Erebus; thou art pardoned, being but a female.

What says the poet ?-- '"Woman is passion's slave, while rightful lord O'er her and passion, rules the nobler male." Youth! to my arms! Truly say the philosophers, that the universe is magical in itself, and by mysterious sympathies links like to like.

The prophetic instinct of thy future benefits towards me drew me to thee as by an invisible warp, hawser, or chain-cable, from the moment I beheld thee.

Thou went a kindred spirit, my brother, though thou knewest it not.

Therefore I do not praise thee--no, nor thank thee in the least, though thou hast preserved for me the one palm which shadows my weary steps--the single lotus-flower (in this case black, not white) which blooms for me above the mud-stained ocean wastes of the Hylic Borboros.
That which thou hast done, thou hast done by instinct--by divine compulsion--thou couldst no more help it than thou canst help eating that fish, and art no more to be praised for it.' 'Thank you,' said Philammon.
'Comprehend me.