No Rural Community, No Suburban Community, Can

Diaries Tell Their Little Tales With A Directness, A Candor, Conscious Or Unconscious, A Closeness Of Outlook, Which Gratifies Our Sense Of Security. Reading Them Is Like Gazing Through A Small Clear Pane Of Glass. We May Not See Far And Wide, But We See Very Distinctly That Which Comes Within Our Field Of Vision.

Just As We Are Often Moved To Merriment For No Other Reason Than That The Occasion Calls For Seriousness, So We Are Correspondingly Serious When Invited Too Freely To Be Amused.

Abroad It Is Our Habit To Regard All Other Travelers In The Light Of Personal And Unpardonable Grievances. They Are Intruders Into Our Chosen Realms Of Pleasure, They Jar Upon Our Sensibilities, They Lessen Our Meager Share Of Comforts, They Are Everywhere In Our Way, They Are Always An Unnecessary Feature In The Landscape.

The Labors Of The True Critic Are More Essential To The Author, Even, Than To The Reader.

A Villain Must Be A Thing Of Power, Handled With Delicacy And Grace. He Must Be Wicked Enough To Excite Our Aversion, Strong Enough To Arouse Our Fear, Human Enough To Awaken Some Transient Gleam Of Sympathy. We Must Triumph In His Downfall, Yet Not Barbarously Nor With Contempt, And The Close Of His Career Must Be In Harmony With All Its Previous Development.