Panic Is A Sudden Desertion Of Us,

God, We Are Told, Looked Upon The World After He Had Created It And Pronounced It Good; But Ascetic Pietists, In Their Wisdom, Cast Their Eyes Over It, And Substantially Pronounce It A Dead Failure, A Miserable Production, A Poor Concern.

It Is Safer To Quote What Is Written Than What Is Spoken. What A Man Writes It Is Fair To Presume He Believes As A Matter Of General Conviction, But It Is Not So With What He Utters In The Freedom Of Conversation. In That He May Only Express The Feeling Of The Moment, And Not His Settled Judgment, Or Matured Opinion.

Truth Comes To Us From The Past, As Gold Is Washed Down From The Mountains Of Sierra Nevada, In Minute But Precious Particles, And Intermixed With Infinite Alloy, The Debris Of The Centuries.

To Vindicate The Sanctity Of Human Life By Taking It Is An Outrage Upon Reason. The Spectacle Of A Human Being Dangling At The End Of A Gallows-rope Is A Degradation Of Humanity.

I Once Asked A Distinguished Artist What Place He Gave To Labor In Art. "labor," He In Effect Said, "is The Beginning, The Middle, And The End Of Art." Turning Then To Another--"and You," I Inquired, "what Do You Consider As The Great Force In Art?" "love," He Replied. In Their Two Answers I Found But One Truth.