Cruelty Is The Only Sin.

Nothing, Except The Weather Report Or A General Maxim Of Conduct, Is So Unsafe To Rely Upon As A Theory Of Fiction.

And Where Was Happiness If It Sprung Not From The Soil? Where Contentment If It Dwelt Not Near To Nature?

Idealism, That Gaudy Coloring Matter Of Passion, Fades When It Is Brought Beneath The Trenchant White Light Of Knowledge. Ideals, Like Mountains, Are Best At A Distance.

To Mourn Was Distressing, But To Endeavor To Mourn And Fail Was Worse Than Distress.

Nothing Is More Consuming, Or More Illogical, Than The Desire For Remembrance.