Our Energy Is In Proportion To The

The Confined Air Of A Metropolis Is Hurtful To The Minds And Bodies Of Those Who Have Never Lived Out Of It. It Is Impure, Stagnant--without Breathing-space To Allow A Larger View Of Ourselves Or Others--and Gives Birth To A Puny, Sickly, Unwholesome, And Degenerate Race Of Beings.

Everything Is In Motion. Everything Flows. Everything Is Vibrating.

The Love Of Letters Is The Forlorn Hope Of The Man Of Letters. His Ruling Passion Is The Love Of Fame.

No Man Can Thoroughly Master More Than One Art Or Science.

Man Is A Poetical Animal, And Delights In Fiction.