No One Can Fail To

Man Is Like A Tree, With The Mighty Trunk Of Intellect, The Spreading Branches Of Imagination, And The Roots Of The Lower Instincts That Bind Him To The Earth. The Moral Life, However, Is The Fruit He Bears; In It His True Nature Is Revealed.

No Religion Can Long Continue To Maintain Its Purity When The Church Becomes The Subservient Vassal Of The State

The Human Race May Be Compared To A Writer. At The Outset A Writer Has Often Only A Vague General Notion Of The Plan Of His Work, And Of The Thought He Intends To Elaborate. As He Proceeds, Penetrating His Material, Laboring To Express Himself Fitly, He Lays A Firmer Grasp On His Thought; He Finds Himself. So The Human Race Is Writing Its Story, Finding Itself, Discovering Its Own Underlying Purpose, Revising, Recasting A Tale Pathetic Often, Yet None The Less Sublime.

People May Be Said To Resemble Not The Bricks Of Which A House Is Built, But The Pieces Of A Picture Puzzle, Each Differing In Shape, But Matching The Rest, And Thus Bringing Out The Picture.

We Should Teach Our Children Nothing Which They Shall Ever Need To Unlearn; We Should Strive To Transmit To Them The Best Possessions, The Truest Thought, The Noblest Sentiments Of The Age In Which We Live.