that they are natural phenomena, obeying certain fixed laws; that
they are necessary from time to time; that they are probably, on the
whole, useful.

And we know two ways of facing a storm, one of which you may see too
often among the boatmen of the Mediterranean--How a man shall say, I
know nothing as to how, or why, or when, a storm should come; and I
care not to know. If one falls on me, I will cry for help to the
Panagia, or St. Nicholas, or some other saint, and perhaps they will
still the storm by miracle. That is superstition, the child of
ignorance and fear.

And you may have seen what comes of that temper of mind. How, when
the storm comes, instead of order, you have confusion; instead of
courage, cowardice; instead of a calm and manly faith, a miserable
crying of every man to his own saint, while the vessel is left to
herself to sink or swim.

But what is the temper of true religion, and of true science
likewise? The seaman will say, I dare not pray that there may be no
storm. I cannot presume to interfere with God's government. If
there ought to be a storm, there will be one: if not, there will be
none. But I can forecast the signs of the weather; I can consult my
barometer; I can judge, by the new lights of science, what course the
storm will probably take; and I can do my best to avoid it.

But does that make religion needless? Does that make prayer useless?
How so? The seaman may say, I dare not pray that the storm may not
come. But there is no necessity that I should be found in its path.
And I may pray, and I will pray, that God may so guide and govern my