Profaneness Is A Brutal Vice. He Who

In Some Way The Secret Vice Exhales Its Poison; And The Evil Passion, However Cunningly Masked, Stains Through To The Surface.

No Man Knows The Genuineness Of His Convictions Until He Has Sacrificed Something For Them.

We Move Too Much In Platoons; We March By Sections; We Do Not Live In Our Vital Individuality Enough; We Are Slaves To Fashion, In Mind And In Heart, If Not To Our Passions And Appetites.

There Is No Doubt Of The Essential Nobility Of That Man Who Pours Into Life The Honest Vigor Of His Toil, Over Those Who Compose The Feathery Foam Of Fashion That Sweeps Along Broadway; Who Consider The Insignia Of Honor To Consist In Wealth And Indolence; And Who, Ignoring The Family History, Paint Coats Of Arms To Cover Up The Leather Aprons Of Their Grandfathers.

Certainly, Truth Should Be Strenuous And Bold; But The Strongest Things Are Not Always The Noisiest, As Any One May See Who Compares Scolding With Logic.