Crime, To The Man Of The Forties,

It Is A Mistake To Talk Of The Twilight Of Age, Or The Blurred Sight Of Old People. The Long Day Grows Clearer At Its Close, And The Petty Fogs Of Prejudice Which Rose Between Us And Our Fellows In Youth Melt Away As The Sun Goes Down. At Last We See God's Creatures As They Are.

America May Have Great Poets And Novelists, But She Never Will Have More Than One Necromancer.

It Is A Good Rule Never To See Or Talk To The Man Whose Words Have Wrung Your Heart, Or Helped It, Just As It Is Wise Not To Look Down Too Closely At The Luminous Glow Which Sometimes Shines On Your Path On A Summer Night, If You Would Not See The Ugly Worm Below.

I Have Never Seen An Adequate Description Anywhere Of The Amazement, The Uncomprehending Horror Of The Bulk Of The American People Which Preceded The Firing Of That Gun At Sumter. Politicians Or Far-sighted Leaders On Both Sides Knew What Was Coming. And It Is They Who Have Written Histories Of The War. But To The Easy-going Millions, Busied With Their Farms Or Shops, The Onrushing Disaster Was As Inexplicable As An Earthquake. Their Protest Arose From Sea To Sea Like The Clamor Of A Gigantic Hive Of Frightened Bees.

For, After All, Put It As We May To Ourselves, We Are All Of Us From Birth To Death Guests At A Table Which We Did Not Spread.