Never The Grave Gives Back What It

The Voice Of Our Age Seems By No Means Favorable To Art, At All Events To That Kind Of Art To Which My Inquiry Is Directed. The Course Of Events Has Given A Direction To The Genius Of The Time That Threatens To Remove It Continually Further From The Ideal Of Art. For Art Has To Leave Reality, It Has To Raise Itself Bodily Above Necessity And Neediness; For Art Is The Daughter Of Freedom, And It Requires Its Prescriptions And Rules To Be Furnished By The Necessity Of Spirits And Not By That Of Matter.

It May Here Be Justly Said, That Genuine Morality Is Preserved Only In The School Of Adversity, And A State Of Continuous Prosperity May Easily Prove A Quicksand To Virtue.

Egotism Erects Its Center In Itself; Love Places It Out Of Itself In The Axis Of The Universal Whole. Love Aims At Unity, Egotism At Solitude. Love Is The Citizen Ruler Of A Flourishing Republic, Egotism Is A Despot In A Devastated Creation. Egotism Sows For Gratitude, Love For The Ungrateful. Love Gives, Egotism Lends; And Love Does This Before The Throne Of Judicial Truth, Indifferent If For The Enjoyment Of The Following Moment, Or With The View To A Martyr's Crown--indifferent Whether The Reward Is In This Life Or In The Next.

What Else Is Chance But The Rude Stone Which Receives Its Life From The Sculptor's Hand? Providence Gives Us Chance, And Man Must Mould It To His Own Designs.

A Sublime Soul Can Rise To All Kinds Of Greatness, But By An Effort; It Can Tear Itself From All Bondage, To All That Limits And Constrains It, But Only By Strength Of Will. Consequently The Sublime Soul Is Only Free By Broken Efforts.