To me a saint is a saint whether he wears wooden shoes or goes barefoot, whether he gets his baptism silently out of a font of consecrated water or comes dripping from the depths of the nearest brook, shouting, "Glory hallelujah!" From my boyhood the persecution of man for opinion's sake--and no matter for what opinion's sake--has roused within me the only devil I have ever personally known.
My reading has embraced not a few works which seek or which affect to deal with the mystery of life and death.

Each and every one of them leaves a mystery still.

For all their learning and research--their positivity and contradiction--none of the writers know more than I think I know myself, and all that I think I know myself may be abridged to the simple rescript, I know nothing.

The wisest of us reck not whence we came or whither we go; the human mind is unable to conceive the eternal in either direction; the soul of man inscrutable even to himself.
_The night has a thousand eyes, The day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun._ _The mind has a thousand eyes, The heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done._ All that there is to religion, therefore, is faith; not much more in politics.

We are variously told that the church is losing its hold upon men.