Philosophy Is The Art Of Living.

Anger Turns The Mind Out Of Doors And Bolts The Entrance.

It Does Not Follow, That Because A Particular Work Of Art Succeeds In Charming Us, Its Creator Also Deserves Our Admiration.

The Great God Pan Is Dead.

Antisthenes Says That In A Certain Faraway Land The Cold Is So Intense That Words Freeze As Soon As They Are Uttered, And After Some Time Then Thaw And Become Audible, So That Words Spoken In Winter Go Unheard Until The Next Summer.

Not By Lamentations And Mournful Chants Ought We To Celebrate The Funeral Of A Good Man, But By Hymns; For, Ion Ceasing To Be Numbered With Mortals, He Enters Upon The Heritage Of A Diviner Life. Since He Is Gone Where He Feels No Pain, Let Us Not Indulge In Too Much Grief. The Soul Is Incapable Of Death. And He, Like A Bird Not Long Enough In His Cage To Become Attached To It, Is Free To Fly Away To A Purer Air. . . . Since We Cherish A Trust Like This, Let Our Outward Actions Be In Accord With It, And Let Us Keep Our Hearts Pure And Our Minds Calm.