To Be Master Of Any

Three Generations Of Imbeciles Are Enough.

There Is Nothing Like The Dead Cold Hand Of The Past To Take Down Our Tumid Egotism And Lead Us Into The Solemn Flow Of The Life Of Our Race.

The Worst Of A Modern Stylish Mansion Is That It Has No Place For Ghosts.

These Are The Hands Whose Sturdy Labor Brings The Peasant's Food, The Golden Pomp Of Kings; This Is The Page Whose Letters Shall Be Seen, Changed By The Sun To Words Of Living Green; This Is The Scholar Whose Immortal Penspells The First Lesson Hunger Taught To Men; These Are The Lines That Heaven-commanded Toil Shows On His Deed, - The Charter Of The Soil!

As For The Excellent Little Wretches Who Grow Up In What They Are Taught, With Never A Scruple Or A Query, ... They Signify Nothing In The Intellectual Life Of The Race.