In The Fell Clutch Of Circumstance, I

Into The Winter's Gray Delight, Into The Summer's Golden Dream, Holy And High And Impartial, Death, The Mother Of Life, Mingles All Men For Ever.

It Is The Artist's Function Not To Copy But To Synthesise: To Eliminate From That Gross Confusion Of Actuality Which Is His Raw Material Whatever Is Accidental, Idle, Irrelevant, And Select For Perpetuation That Only Which Is Appropriate And Immortal.

The Life Of Dumas Is Not Only A Monument Of Endeavour And Success, It Is A Sort Of Labyrinth As Well. It Abounds In Pseudonyms And Disguises, In Sudden And Unexpected Appearances And Retreats As Unexpected And Sudden, In Scandals And In Rumours, In Mysteries And Traps And Ambuscades Of Every Kind.

Men There Have Been Who Have Done The Essayist's Part So Well As To Have Earned An Immortality In The Doing; But We Have Had Not Many Of Them, And They Make But A Poor Figure On Our Shelves. It Is A Pity That Things Should Be Thus With Us, For A Good Essayist Is The Pleasantest Companion Imaginable.

Life - Life - Let There Be Life! Better A Thousand Times The Roaring Hours When Wave And Wind, Like The Arch-murderer In Flight From The Avenger At His Heel, Storm Through The Desolate Fastnesses And Wild Waste Places Of The World!