This World, After All Our Science And

Happy Season Of Virtuous Youth, When Shame Is Still An Impassable Barrier, And The Sacred Air-cities Of Hope Have Not Shrunk Into The Mean Clay Hamlets Of Reality; And Man, By His Nature, Is Yet Infinite And Free.

Genius Is An Infinite Capacity For Taking Pains.

The Greatest Security Against Sin Is To Be Shocked At Its Presence.

The Fine Arts Once Divorcing Themselves From Truth Are Quite Certain To Fall Mad, If They Do Not Die.

Fame, We May Understand, Is No Sure Test Of Merit, But Only A Probability Of Such: It Is An Accident, Not A Property, Of A Man; Like Light, It Can Give Little Or Nothing, But At Most May Show What Is Given.