Behind Every Fortune There Is A Crime.

The Causes That Govern The Heart Appear To Be Wholly Alien To The Results Achieved. Are The Forces That Moved A Desperate Criminal The Same That Fill A Martyr With Pride, As Both Mount The Scaffold?

People Who Climb From One Rung Of Society To Another Can Never Do Anything Simply.

Towns Find It As Hard As Houses Of Business To Rise Again From Ruin.

In The Silence Of Their Studios, Busied For Days At A Time With Works Which Leave The Mind Relatively Free, Painters Become Like Women; Their Thoughts Can Revolve Around The Minor Facts Of Life And Penetrate Their Hidden Meaning.

The Human Heart May Find Here And There A Resting-place Short Of The Highest Height Of Affection, But We Seldom Stop In The Steep, Downward Slope Of Hatred.