Life Is A Theatre Of Alarms And

If We Divine A Discrepancy Between A Man's Words And His Character, The Whole Impression Of Him Becomes Broken And Painful; He Revolts The Imagination By His Lack Of Unity, And Even The Good In Him Is Hardly Accepted.

Our Individual Lives Cannot, Generally, Be Works Of Art Unless The Social Order Is Also.

There Is Nothing Less To Our Credit Than Our Neglect Of The Foreigner And His Children, Unless It Be The Arrogance Most Of Us Betray When We Set Out To "americanize" Him.

It Is Surely A Matter Of Common Observation That A Man Who Knows No One Thing Intimately Has No Views Worth Hearing On Things In General. The Farmer Philosophizes In Terms Of Crops, Soils, Markets, And Implements, The Mechanic Generalizes His Experiences Of Wood And Iron, The Seaman Reaches Similar Conclusions By His Own Special Road; And If The Scholar Keeps Pace With These It Must Be By An Equally Virile Productivity.

One Who Shows Signs Of Mental Aberration Is, Inevitably, Perhaps, But Cruelly, Shut Off From Familiar, Thoughtless Intercourse, Partly Excommunicated; His Isolation Is Unwittingly Proclaimed To Him On Every Countenance By Curiosity, Indifference, Aversion, Or Pity, And In So Far As He Is Human Enough To Need Free And Equal Communication And Feel The Lack Of It, He Suffers Pain And Loss Of A Kind And Degree Which Others Can Only Faintly Imagine, And For The Most Part Ignore.