No Man Ever Prayed Heartily Without Learning

Who Is He That Shall Control Me? Why May Not I Act And Speak And Write And Think With Entire Freedom? What Am I To The Universe, Or, The Unvierse, What Is It To Me? Who Hath Forged The Chains Of Wrong And Right, Of Opinion And Custom? And Must I Wear Them?

His Heart Was As Great As The World, But There Was No Room In It To Hold The Memory Of A Wrong.

We Go To Europe To Be Americanized.

All My Hurts My Garden Spade Can Heal.

We Postpone Our Literary Work Until We Have More Ripeness And Skill To Write, And We One Day Discover That Our Literary Talent Wasa Youthful Effervescence Which We Have Now Lost.