The Heresy Of One Age

That Which Is Called Liberality Is Frequently Nothing More Than The Vanity Of Giving.

It Is Vain To Trust In Wrong; As Much Of Evil, So Much Of Loss, Is The Formula Of Human History.

All Men Desire To Be Immortal.

Magnificent Promises Are Always To Be Suspected.

It Seems Strange That A Butterfly's Wing Should Be Woven Up So Thin And Gauzy In The Monstrous Loom Of Nature, And Be So Delicately Tipped With Fire From Such A Gross Hand, And Rainbowed All Over In Such A Storm Of Thunderous Elements. The Marvel Is That Such Great Forces Do Such Nice Work.