A Grave, On Which To Rest From

Don't Get Me Wrong-painting's All Right. But Now That We Have Photography, What's The Point?

It Is Not Merely The Likeness Which Is Precious... But The Association And The Sense Of Nearness Involved In The Thing... The Fact Of The Very Shadow Of The Person Lying There Fixed Forever! It Is The Very Sanctification Of Portraits I Think - And It Is Not At All Monstrous In Me To Say That I Would Rather Have Such A Memorial Of One I Dearly Loved, Than The Noblest Artist's Work Ever Produced.

And Is It Not The Chief Good Of Money, The Being Free From The Need Of Thinking Of It?

Men Of Science, Osteologists And Surgeons, Beat Some Poets, In Respect For Nature,-count Nought Common Or Unclean, Spend Raptures Upon Perfect Specimens Of Indurated Veins, Distorted Joints, Or Beautiful New Cases Of Curved Spine; While We, We Are Shocked At Nature's Falling Off, We Dare To Shrink Back From Her Warts And Blains.

God Keeps A Niche In Heaven, To Hold Our Idols; And Albeit He Brake Them To Our Faces, And Denied That Our Close Kisses Should Impair Their White,-- I Know We Shall Behold Them Raised, Complete, The Dust Swept From Their Beauty, Glorified, New Memnons Singing In The Great God-light.