The Great Artist Is A Slave To

Nature Has Provided For The Exigency Of Privation, By Putting The Measure Of Our Necessities Far Below The Measure Of Our Wants. Our Necessities Are To Our Wants As Falstaff's Pennyworth Of Bread To His Any Quantity Of Sack.

What We Call Conscience In Many Instances, Is Only A Wholesome Fear Of The Law.

The Lively And Mercurial Are As Open Books, With The Leaves Turned Down At The Notable Passages. Their Souls Sit At The Windows Of Their Eyes, Seeing And To Be Seen.

Within The Sacred Walls Of Libraries We Find The Best Thoughts, The Purest Feelings, And The Most Exalted Imaginings Of Our Race.

Common Sense, Alas In Spite Of Our Educational Institutions, Is A Rare Commodity.