Art Is The Daughter Of Freedom.

Let Him That Sows The Serpent's Teeth Not Hope To Reap A Joyous Harvest. Every Crime Has, In The Moment Of Its Perpetration, Its Own Avenging Angel,--dark Misgivings At The Inmost Heart.

It Is Play And Only Play That Makes Man Complete.

Day's Lustrous Eyes Grow Heavy In Sweet Death.

In A Narrow Circle The Mind Contracts. Man Grows With His Expanded Needs.

Rarely Do We Arrive At The Summit Of Truth Without Running Into Extremes; We Have Frequently To Exhaust The Part Of Error, And Even Of Folly, Before We Work Our Way Up To The Noble Goal Of Tranquil Wisdom.