One lieDemands for its support a hundred more.
One lieDemands for its support a hundred more.
One lie must be thatched with another, or it will soon rain through.
—Owen.
Life is a journey, and they only who have traveled a considerable way in it, are fit to direct those who are setting out.
A term of life is set to every man,Which is but short; and pass it no one can.
A term of life is set to every man,Which is but short; and pass it no one can.
—Burton.
Better, ten-fold, is a life that is sunny,Than a life that has nothing to boast of but money.
Better, ten-fold, is a life that is sunny,Than a life that has nothing to boast of but money.
I have found by experience that many who have spent all their lives in cities, contract not only an effeminacy of habit but of thinking.
—Goldsmith.
At twenty years of age, the will reigns; at thirty, the wit; and at forty, the judgment.
—Gratian.
I find one of the great things in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving.
There's a Divinity that shapes our ends,Rough-hew them as we will.
There's a Divinity that shapes our ends,Rough-hew them as we will.
—Shakespeare.
The husband and the wife must, like two wheels, support the chariot of domestic life, otherwise it must stop.
The following well-merited rebuke by a slave to his master, shows that persons occupying mean positions in this life are sometimes superior to those above them.
A gentleman in the enjoyment of wealth, and of high social standing, and wholly given up to the pleasures of this world, knowing that one of his slaves was religious, and happening to see him in the garden near the porch of his house, called him up rather to amuse himself than for any serious purpose. When the slave came to him, cap in hand, he said, "Tom, what do you think of me; do you believe I will be one of the elect when I die?"
With a low obeisance, the slave replied: "Master, I never knew any one to be elected who was not a candidate."
The master, struck with the gentle but just rebuke of the man's answer, turned and entered his mansion, and from that hour became a candidate, living thereafter a good life.
—Belhaven.
Every period of life has its peculiar prejudices: whoever saw old age, that did not applaud the past, and condemn the present times?
—Montaigne.
In life, as in chess, forethought wins.
Yes and No are, for good or evil, the giants of life.
—D. Jerrold.
An old gentleman, accounting recently for his age and his happiness, said: "It is quite simple. Lead a natural life, eat what you want,—but of course prudence must be exercised—and walk on the sunny side of the street."
It is to live twice, when we can enjoy the recollections of our former life.
Life! We've been long togetherThrough pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time,Say not "good-night," but in some brighter clime,Bid me "good-morning."
Life! We've been long togetherThrough pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time,Say not "good-night," but in some brighter clime,Bid me "good-morning."
—A. L. Barbauld.
How short is human life! the very breathWhich frames my words, accelerates my death.
How short is human life! the very breathWhich frames my words, accelerates my death.
—Hannah More.
Ah! what is human life?How like the dial's tardy-moving shade,Day after day slides from us unperceived!The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth;Too subtle is the movement to be seen:Yet soon the hour is up—and we are—gone.
Ah! what is human life?How like the dial's tardy-moving shade,Day after day slides from us unperceived!The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth;Too subtle is the movement to be seen:Yet soon the hour is up—and we are—gone.
—Young.
Are we to have a continuous performance by "I did" and "I didn't"?
—Unknown.
Into each life some rain must fall,Some days be dark and drearyBut—Behind the cloud the sun's still shining.
Into each life some rain must fall,Some days be dark and drearyBut—Behind the cloud the sun's still shining.
—Longfellow.
Every man's life lies within the present; for the past is spent and done with, and the future is uncertain.
—Antoninus.
Lord, help me live from day to day,In such a self-forgetful way,That even when I kneel to pray,My prayer shall be for—others.
Lord, help me live from day to day,In such a self-forgetful way,That even when I kneel to pray,My prayer shall be for—others.
No one sees what is before his feet; we all gaze at the stars.
—Cicero.
He who with life makes sport,Can prosper never;Who rules himself in nought,Is a slave ever.
He who with life makes sport,Can prosper never;Who rules himself in nought,Is a slave ever.
Think not thou livest in vain,Or that one honest painOf thine is lost.He, who in loving care,Numbers thine every hair,Knows all the cost.No lightest care of thineEscapes His love divine;No smile's forgot,Nor cup of water given.Each tender, loving deed,Like some strange, precious seed,Shall bear its fruit in heaven.Nor dream, if thou wert goneFrom out life's troubled throngThou'dst not be missed.Thou knowest not what heart,That lives in gloom apart,Would find its sunshine fledIf thou wert dead—What slender thread of faith would breakIf thou shouldest prove untrue.The flower that blooms in desert placeAnd lifts its head with winsome grace,Might sigh: "Alas; ah, me:Why should I live where none can see?"But He who made both field and flood,Hath formed that flower and called it good,And in His wisdom placed it thereTo make the desert seem more fair:And if He then hath need of flowersTo deck this barren world of ours,He hath a use for thee!
Think not thou livest in vain,Or that one honest painOf thine is lost.He, who in loving care,Numbers thine every hair,Knows all the cost.
No lightest care of thineEscapes His love divine;No smile's forgot,Nor cup of water given.Each tender, loving deed,Like some strange, precious seed,Shall bear its fruit in heaven.
Nor dream, if thou wert goneFrom out life's troubled throngThou'dst not be missed.Thou knowest not what heart,That lives in gloom apart,Would find its sunshine fledIf thou wert dead—What slender thread of faith would breakIf thou shouldest prove untrue.
The flower that blooms in desert placeAnd lifts its head with winsome grace,Might sigh: "Alas; ah, me:Why should I live where none can see?"But He who made both field and flood,Hath formed that flower and called it good,And in His wisdom placed it thereTo make the desert seem more fair:And if He then hath need of flowersTo deck this barren world of ours,He hath a use for thee!
How small a portion of our life it is, that we really enjoy. In youth, we are looking forward to things that are to come; in old age, we are looking backwards to things that are gone past; in manhood, although we appear indeed to be more occupied in things that are present, yet even that is too often absorbed in vague determinations to be vastly happy on some future day, when we have time.
Our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.
Our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.
—Shakespeare.
This folio of four pages, happy work!Which not even critics criticize, that holdsInquisitive attention while I read—What is it, but a busy map of life,Its fluctuations and its vast concerns?
This folio of four pages, happy work!Which not even critics criticize, that holdsInquisitive attention while I read—What is it, but a busy map of life,Its fluctuations and its vast concerns?
The acts of this life are the destiny of the next.
—Chinese.
There are three whose life is no life:—He who lives at another's table;He whose wife domineers over him;And he who suffers bodily affliction.
There are three whose life is no life:—He who lives at another's table;He whose wife domineers over him;And he who suffers bodily affliction.
—Talmud.
Life is too short to be spent in nursing animosities, or in registering wrongs.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear;Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,And trifles, life.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear;Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,And trifles, life.
—Young.
Life's fittest station needs must beMidway between the poor and great:Above the cares of poverty,Below the cares of high estate.
Life's fittest station needs must beMidway between the poor and great:Above the cares of poverty,Below the cares of high estate.
—E. C. Dolson.
We find life exactly what we put in it.
The sweetest thing in lifeIs the unclouded welcome of a wife.
The sweetest thing in lifeIs the unclouded welcome of a wife.
—N. P. Willis.
As we advance in life we learn the limits of our abilities.
—Froude.
Be ready at all times to listen to others.
A man with an empty stomach is a poor listener.
The only thing certain about litigation is it's uncertainty.
—Bovee.
Little by little added, if oft done,In small time makes a good possession.
Little by little added, if oft done,In small time makes a good possession.
—Hesiod, a Greek, 850 B. C.
What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?
The old man looks down, and thinks of the past.The young man looks up, and thinks of the future.The child looks everywhere, and thinks of nothing.
The old man looks down, and thinks of the past.The young man looks up, and thinks of the future.The child looks everywhere, and thinks of nothing.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,That whatsoever thing is lost,We seek it, ere it come to light,In every cranny but the right.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,That whatsoever thing is lost,We seek it, ere it come to light,In every cranny but the right.
—Cowper.
Where you are not appreciated, you cannot be loved.
When people fall in love at first sight, they often live to regret that they didn't take another look.
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word,I hate to go above you;Because"—the brown eyes lower fell—"Because, you see, I love you!"
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word,I hate to go above you;Because"—the brown eyes lower fell—"Because, you see, I love you!"
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
Where there is love, all things interest; where there is indifference, minute details are tedious, disbelief is cherished, and trifles are apt to be thought contemptible.
If he loves me, the merit is not mine; my fault will be if he ceases.
To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness—it blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being; he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest."
But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is her world—is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.
Shall I confess it?—I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love! I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. So is it the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection.
—Washington Irving.
To love and to be loved is the greatest happiness of existence.
Since there's no help for me, come, let us kiss and part—Alas! I am done, you see no more of me;But I am sorry, yea, sorry with all my heart,That thus, you have willed it,—to be free:Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.
Since there's no help for me, come, let us kiss and part—Alas! I am done, you see no more of me;But I am sorry, yea, sorry with all my heart,That thus, you have willed it,—to be free:Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.
—Anonymous.
Dr. Doddridge one day asked his little daughter how it was that everybody loved her: "I know not," said she, "unless it be that I love everybody."
—Arvine.
He who is loved by man is loved by God.
—The Talmud.
If there's delight in love, 'tis when I seeThat heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.
If there's delight in love, 'tis when I seeThat heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.
—Garrick.
Love is the only passion that justifies a perpetual hyperbole, i. e., poetic exaggeration.
—Bacon.
There is an atmosphere in the letters of those we love which we alone—we who love—can feel.
Life without love is like day without sunshine,Roses bereft of sweet nature's perfume;Love is the guide mark to those who are wearyOf waiting and watching in darkness and gloom.Love to the heart is like dewdrops to violetsLeft on the dust-ridden roadside to die;Love leads the way to our highest endeavors,Lightens and lessens the pain of each sigh.Life without love is like spring without flowers,Brook-streams that move not, or star-bereft sky;Love creates efforts most worthy and noble,Prompts us to live and resigns us to die.
Life without love is like day without sunshine,Roses bereft of sweet nature's perfume;Love is the guide mark to those who are wearyOf waiting and watching in darkness and gloom.
Love to the heart is like dewdrops to violetsLeft on the dust-ridden roadside to die;Love leads the way to our highest endeavors,Lightens and lessens the pain of each sigh.
Life without love is like spring without flowers,Brook-streams that move not, or star-bereft sky;Love creates efforts most worthy and noble,Prompts us to live and resigns us to die.
—Unknown.
The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the whole world diesWith the setting sun.The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one;But the light of a whole life diesWhen love is done.
The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the whole world diesWith the setting sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one;But the light of a whole life diesWhen love is done.
—Francis W. Bourdillon.
One nail by strength drives out another,So the remembrance of my former loveIs by a newer object quite forgotten.
One nail by strength drives out another,So the remembrance of my former loveIs by a newer object quite forgotten.
—Shakespeare.
Love is like the moon; when it does not increase, it decreases.
Behold the sun forget to shine,The brightest star to twinkle,The ivy round the oak to twine,The tearful heart to sprinkleThe sod that wraps affection's grave,The never silent surging seaThe sandy shore to lash and lave—Then think that I'll forget thee.
Behold the sun forget to shine,The brightest star to twinkle,The ivy round the oak to twine,The tearful heart to sprinkleThe sod that wraps affection's grave,The never silent surging seaThe sandy shore to lash and lave—Then think that I'll forget thee.
—Winfred.
Sweet mother, I can spin no more to-day,And all for a youth who has stolen my heart away.
Sweet mother, I can spin no more to-day,And all for a youth who has stolen my heart away.
—Sappho, 600 B. C.—Translated by Appleton.
We are easily duped by those whom we love.
—Moliere.
"Martha, does thee love me?" asked a quaker youth of one at whose shrine his heart's fondest feelings had been offered up.
"Why, Seth," answered she, "we are commanded to love one another, are we not?"
"Aye, Martha; but does thee regard me with that feeling that the world calls love?"
"I hardly know what to tell thee, Seth; I have greatly feared that my heart was an erring one. I have tried to bestow my love on all; but I have sometimes thought, perhaps, that thee was getting rather more than thy share."
—Christian Observer.
No disguise can long conceal love where it is, nor feign it where it is not.
—Rochefoucauld.
Naught sweeter is than love. Whom that doth blessRegardeth all things less.If thou first taste of love, then shalt thou seeHoney shall bitter be!What roses are, they never know, who missFair Cytherea's kiss.
Naught sweeter is than love. Whom that doth blessRegardeth all things less.If thou first taste of love, then shalt thou seeHoney shall bitter be!What roses are, they never know, who missFair Cytherea's kiss.
—Nossis, Greek.Translated by Lilla Cabot Perry.
How often love is maintained by wealth:When all is spent adversity then breedsThe discontent.
How often love is maintained by wealth:When all is spent adversity then breedsThe discontent.
—Herrick.
The moment one is in love one becomes so amiable.
I had so fixed my heart upon her,That whereso'er I fram'd a scheme of lifeFor time to come, she was my only joyWith which I used to sweeten future cares:I fancy'd pleasures, none but one who lovesAnd doats as I did, can imagine like them.
I had so fixed my heart upon her,That whereso'er I fram'd a scheme of lifeFor time to come, she was my only joyWith which I used to sweeten future cares:I fancy'd pleasures, none but one who lovesAnd doats as I did, can imagine like them.
The secretof being lovedisin beinglovely, and the secretof beinglovely, isin beingunselfish.
A lover never sees the faults of the one he loves till the enchantment is over.
He came too late! Neglect had triedHer constancy too long;Her love had yielded to her prideAnd the deep sense of wrong.She scorned the offering of a heartWhich lingered on its way,Till it could no delight impart,Nor spread one cheering ray.He came too late! At once he feltThat all his power was o'er;Indifference in her calm smile dwelt—She thought of him no more.Anger and grief had passed away,Her heart and thoughts were free;She met him, and her words were gayNo spell had memory.He came too late! Her countless dreamsOf hope had long since flown;No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,Nor in his whispered tone.And when, with word and smile, he triedAffection still to prove,She nerved her heart with woman's prideAnd spurned his fickle love.
He came too late! Neglect had triedHer constancy too long;Her love had yielded to her prideAnd the deep sense of wrong.She scorned the offering of a heartWhich lingered on its way,Till it could no delight impart,Nor spread one cheering ray.
He came too late! At once he feltThat all his power was o'er;Indifference in her calm smile dwelt—She thought of him no more.Anger and grief had passed away,Her heart and thoughts were free;She met him, and her words were gayNo spell had memory.
He came too late! Her countless dreamsOf hope had long since flown;No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,Nor in his whispered tone.And when, with word and smile, he triedAffection still to prove,She nerved her heart with woman's prideAnd spurned his fickle love.
—Unknown.
Oh, no! we never mention him, his name is never heard;My lips are now forbid to speak that once familiar word:From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret;And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget.They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see;But were I in a foreign land, they'd find no change in me.'Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met,I do not see the hawthorn-tree; but how can I forget?For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me—The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea;The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set;—Ay, every leaf I look upon forbids me to forget.They tell me he is happy now, the gayest of the gay;They hint that he forgets me too,—but I heed not what they say:Perhaps like me he struggles with each feeling of regret;But if he loves as I have loved, he never can forget.
Oh, no! we never mention him, his name is never heard;My lips are now forbid to speak that once familiar word:From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret;And when they win a smile from me, they think that I forget.
They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see;But were I in a foreign land, they'd find no change in me.'Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met,I do not see the hawthorn-tree; but how can I forget?
For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me—The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea;The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set;—Ay, every leaf I look upon forbids me to forget.
They tell me he is happy now, the gayest of the gay;They hint that he forgets me too,—but I heed not what they say:Perhaps like me he struggles with each feeling of regret;But if he loves as I have loved, he never can forget.
—Thomas Haynes Bayley, 1797-1839.
Is it possible a man can be so changed by love that one would not know him for the same person?
Girls we love for what they are; young men for what they promise to be.
—Goethe.
Love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
Caresses, expressions of one sort or another, are necessary to the life of the affections, as leaves are to the life of a tree. If they are wholly restrained, love will die at the roots.
—Hawthorne.
"My dear Veit," said Luther, "I have said it often and I repeat it again, whoever would know God aright and speculate concerning Him without danger, must look into the manger, and learn first of all to know the Son of the Virgin Mary, born at Bethlehem, lying in His mother's bosom or hanging upon the cross; then will he understand who God is. This will not only then be not terrible, but on the contrary most attractive and comforting. Guard yourself, my dear Veit, from the proud thought of climbing into heaven without this ladder, apart from the Lord Jesus Christ in His humanity. As the Word simple describes Him, stick to this, and do not permit reason to divert you from it; then will you apprehend God aright! I wish to know of no other God than the God who hung upon the cross, Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and of the Virgin Mary."
Luther was remarkable for his contempt of riches, though few men had a greater opportunity of obtaining them. The Elector of Saxony offered him the produce of a mine at Sneberg, but he nobly refused it, lest it should prove an injury to him.
—Buck.
Dr. Johnson:—"A man gives half a guinea for a dish of green peas. How much gardening does this occasion? How many laborers must the competition, to have such things early in the market, keep in employment? You will hear it said very gravely, 'Why was not the half-guinea, thus spent in luxury, given to the poor? To how many might it have afforded a good meal? Alas! has it not gone to theindustriouspoor, whom it is better to support, than theidlepoor? You are much surer that you are doing good when youpaymoney to those who work, as the recompense of their labor, than when yougivemoney merely in charity."
He who is too much afraid of being duped has lost the power of being magnanimous.
—Amiel.
Full oft he sware with accents true and tender,"Though years roll by, my love shall ne'er wax old!"And so to him my heart I did surrender,Clear as a mirror of pure burnished gold;And from that day, unlike the seawood bendingTo every wave raised by the autumn gust,Firm stood my heart, on him alone depending,As the bold seaman in his ship doth trust.Is it some cruel evil one that hath bereft me?Or hath some mortal stolen away his heart?No word, no letter since the day he left me;Nor more he cometh, ne'er again to part!In vain I weep, in helpless, hopeless sorrow,From earliest morn until the close of day;In vain, till radiant dawn brings back the morrow,I sigh the weary, weary nights away.No need to tell how young I am, and slender—A little maid that in thy palm could lie:Still for some message comforting and tenderI pace the room in sad expectancy.
Full oft he sware with accents true and tender,"Though years roll by, my love shall ne'er wax old!"And so to him my heart I did surrender,Clear as a mirror of pure burnished gold;
And from that day, unlike the seawood bendingTo every wave raised by the autumn gust,Firm stood my heart, on him alone depending,As the bold seaman in his ship doth trust.
Is it some cruel evil one that hath bereft me?Or hath some mortal stolen away his heart?No word, no letter since the day he left me;Nor more he cometh, ne'er again to part!
In vain I weep, in helpless, hopeless sorrow,From earliest morn until the close of day;In vain, till radiant dawn brings back the morrow,I sigh the weary, weary nights away.
No need to tell how young I am, and slender—A little maid that in thy palm could lie:Still for some message comforting and tenderI pace the room in sad expectancy.
He was a man, take him for all in all,I shall not look upon his like again.
He was a man, take him for all in all,I shall not look upon his like again.
—Shakespeare.
A truly great man never puts away the simplicity of the child.
—Chinese.
He who does not advance, goes backward; recedes.
—From the Latin.
A man who is amiable will make almost as many friends as he does acquaintances.
An angry man is often angry with himself when he returns to reason.
—Publius Syrus.
An old man answering to the name of Joseph Wilmot, was brought before the police court. His clothes looked as if they had been bought second hand in his youthful prime.
"What business?"
"None; I'm a traveler."
"None; I'm a traveler."
"A vagabond, perhaps?"
"You are not far wrong: the difference between the two, is, that the latter travel without money, and the former without brains."
"You are not far wrong: the difference between the two, is, that the latter travel without money, and the former without brains."
"Where have you traveled?"
"All over the continent."
"All over the continent."
"For what purpose?"
"Observation."
"Observation."
"What have you observed?"
"A little to commend, much to censure, and very much to laugh at."
"A little to commend, much to censure, and very much to laugh at."
"Humph! What do you commend?"
"A handsome women that will stay at home, an eloquent divine that will preach short sermons, a good writer that will not write too much, and a fool that has seen enough to hold his tongue."
"A handsome women that will stay at home, an eloquent divine that will preach short sermons, a good writer that will not write too much, and a fool that has seen enough to hold his tongue."
"What do you censure?"
"A man who marries a girl for fine clothing, a youth who studies law while he has the use of his hands, and the people who elect a drunkard to office."
"A man who marries a girl for fine clothing, a youth who studies law while he has the use of his hands, and the people who elect a drunkard to office."
"What do you laugh at?"
"At a man who expects his position to command the respect which his personal qualities and qualifications do not merit."
"At a man who expects his position to command the respect which his personal qualities and qualifications do not merit."
He was dismissed.
Every man is a volume, if you know how to read him.
—W. E. Channing.
As no man is born without faults, the best is he who has the fewest.
Burns, the poet, when in Edinburgh one day, recognized an old farmer friend, and courteously saluted him, and crossed the street to have a chat; some of his new Edinburgh friends gave him a gentle rebuke, to which he replied:—"It was not the old great-coat, the scone bonnet, that I spoke to, but the man that was in them."
Man has been thrown naked into the world, feeble, incapable of flying like the bird, running like the stag, or creeping like the serpent; without means of defense, in the midst of terrible enemies armed with claws and stings; without means to brave the inclemency of the seasons, in the midst of animals protected by fleece, by scales, by furs; without shelter, when all others have their den, their hole, their shell; without arms, when all about him are armed against him. And yet he has demanded of the lion his cave for a lodging and the lion retires before his eyes; he has despoiled the bear of his skin, and of it made his first clothing; he has plucked the horn from the bull, and this is his first drinking-cup; then he has dug even into the bowels of the earth, to seek there the instruments of his future strength; from a rib, a sinew, and a reed, he has made arms; and the eagle, who, seeing him at first in his weakness and nakedness, prepares to seize him as his prey, struck in mid-air, falls dead at his feet, only to furnish a feather to adorn his head. Among animals, is there one, who under such conditions could have preserved life? Let us for a moment separate the workman from his work, God fromnature. Nature has done all for this insect,—of which they had been discoursing,—nothing for man. It is that man should be the product of intelligence rather than of matter; and God, in granting him this celestial gift, this ray of light from the divine fire, created him feeble and unprotected, that he might make use of it, that he might be constrained to find in himself the elements of his greatness.
—By X. B. Saintine, in Picciola; or,The Prison Flower.
Wherever a man goes to dwell his character goes with him.
Our acts make or mar us,—we are the children of our own deeds.
—Victor Hugo.