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It Is Curious How, From Time Immemorial, Man Seems To Have Associated The Idea Of Evil With Beauty, Shrunk From It With A Sort Of Ghostly Fear, While, At The Same Time Drawn To It By Force Of Its Hypnotic Attraction.

If Romeo And Juliet Make A Tragedy Of It Nowadays, They Have Only To Blame Their Own Mismanagement, For The World Is With Them As It Has Never Been Before, And All Sensible Fathers And Mothers Know It.

Nature Is Forever Arriving And Forever Departing, Forever Approaching, Forever Vanishing; But In Her Vanishings There Seems To Be Ever The Waving Of A Hand, In All Her Partings A Promise Of Meetings Farther Along The Road.

Though Actually The Work Of Man's Hands - Or, More Properly Speaking, The Work Of His Travelling Feet, - Roads Have Long Since Come To Seem So Much A Part Of Nature That We Have Grown To Think Of Them As A Feature Of The Landscape No Less Natural Than Rocks And Trees.

All Wines Are By Their Very Nature Full Of Reminiscence, The Golden Tears And Red Blood Of Summers That Are Gone.