Do you know that charming part of our country which has been called the garden of France - that spot where, amid verdant plains watered by wide streams, one inhales the purest air of heaven?

Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has borrowed from history more than ever.

But it is the province of religion, of philosophy, of pure poetry only, to go beyond life, beyond time, into eternity.

Fainthearted animals move about in herds. The lion walks alone in the desert. Let the poet always walk thus.

The true God, the mighty God, is the God of ideas.

What is a great life but a youthful intention carried out in maturity?

The human mind, I believe, cares for the True only in the general character of an epoch.