There Must Be Something Solemn, Serious, And

The Minute A Man Ceases To Grow, No Matter What His Years, That Minute He Begins To Be Old.

Our Ideas Must Agree With Realities, Be Such Realities Concrete Or Abstract, Be They Facts Or Be They Principles, Under Penalty Of Endless Inconsistency And Frustration.

Nature In Her Unfathomable Designs Had Mixed Us Of Clay And Flame, Of Brain And Mind, That The Two Things Hang Indubitably Together And Determine Each Other's Being But How Or Why, No Mortal May Ever Know.

Pretend What We May, The Whole Man Within Us Is At Work When We Form Our Philosophical Opinions.

The Mind, In Short, Works On The Data It Receives Very Much As The Sculptor Works On His Block Of Stone.