IMPULSE.

Every day we slaughter our finest impulses.  That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines  written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own,  as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the  faith to believe in our own criterion of truth and beauty.  Every man, when he gets quiet,  when he becomes desperately honest with himself,  is capable of uttering profound truths.  We all derive from the...