No Facts To Me Are Sacred; None

Tis The Good Reader That Makes The Good Book.

Painting Seems To Be To The Eye What Dancing Is To The Limbs. When That Has Educated The Frame To Self-possession, To Nimbleness,to Grace, The Steps Of The Dancing-master Are Better Forgotten; So Painting Teaches Me The Splendor Of Color And The Expression Of Form, And As I See Many Pictures And Higher Genius In The Art, I See The Boundless Opulence Of The Pencil, The Indifferency In Which The Artist Stands Free To Choose Out Of The Possible Forms.

Every Thought Is Public, Every Nook Is Wide; Thy Gossips Spread Each Whisper, And The Gods From Side To Side.

Broader And Deeper We Must Write Our Annals, From An Ethical Reformation, From An Influx Of The Ever New, Ever Sanative Conscience, If We Would Trulier Express Our Central And Wide-related Nature, Instead Of This Old Chronology Of Selfishness And Pride To Which We Have Too Long Lent Our Eyes. Already That Day Exists For Us, Shines In On Us At Unawares, But The Path Of Science And Of Letters Is Not The Way Into Nature. The Idiot, The Indian, The Child, And Unschooled Farmer's Boy, Stand Nearer To The Light By Which Nature Is To Be Read, Than The Dissector Or The Antiquary.

A Work Of Art Is An Abstract Or Epitome Of The World. It Is The Result Or Expression Of Nature, In Miniature. For, Although The Works Of Nature Are Innumerable And All Different, The Result Or The Expression Of Them All Is Similar And Single.