A Man Who Can Be Entertaining For

So Much Of Our Lives Is Given Over To The Consideration Of Our Imperfections That There Is No Time To Improve Our Imaginary Virtues. The Truth Is We Only Perfect Our Vices, And Man Is A Worse Creature When He Dies Than He Was When He Was Born.

We Can Only Write Well About Our Sins Because It Is Too Difficult To Recall A Virtuous Act Or Even Whether It Was The Result Of Good Or Evil Motives.

The Machine Has Had A Pernicious Effect Upon Virtue, Pity, And Love, And Young Men Used To Machines Which Induce Inertia, And Fear, Are Near Impotent.

There Is A Strange And Mighty Race Of People Called The Americans Who Are Rapidly Becoming The Coldest In The World Because Of This Cruel, Man-eating Idol, Lucre.

It Is Hideous And Coarse To Assume That We Can Do Something For Others-and It Is Vile Not To Endeavor To Do It.