The Young Were Always Theoretical; Only The

Britain Possesses No Climate, Only Weather.

If We Did Not Know All His Retorts By Heart, If We Had Not Taken The Sting Out Of Them By Incessant Repetition In The Accents Of The Pulpit, And If We Had Not Somehow Got It Into Our Heads That Brains Were Rather Reprehnsible, We Should Reckon Him Among The Greatest Wits Of All Time. Nobody Else, In Three Brief Years, Has Achieved Such An Output Of Epigram.

The Business Of The Artist Is Not To Escape From His Material Medium Or Bully It, But To Serve It; But To Serve It, He Must Love It. If He Does So, He Will Realise That In Its Service Is Perfect Freedom.

The Making Of Miracles To Edification Was As Ardently Admired By Pious Victorians As It Was Sternly Discouraged By Jesus Of Nazareth. Not That The Victorians Were Unique In This Respect. Modern Writers Also Indulge In Edifying Miracles Though They Generally Prefer To Use Them To Procure Unhappy Endings, By Which Piece Of Thaumaturgy They Win The Title Of Realists.

I Imagine You Come Across A Number Of People Who Are Disconcerted By The Difference Between What You Do Feel And What They Fancy You Ought To Feel. It Is Fatal To Pay The Smallest Attention To Them.