Why should we grope among the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe?
The present is an edifice which God cannot rebuild.
He who has acquired the ability, may wait securely the occasion of making it felt and appreciated, and know that it will not loiter.
We grizzle every day. I see no need of it. Whilst we converse with what is above us, we do not grow old, but grow young.
Men are like Geneva watches with crystal faces, which expose the whole movement.
Moller, in his Essay on Architecture, taught that the building which was fitted accurately to answer its end would turn out to be beautiful, though beauty had not been intended. I find the like unity in human structures rather virulent and pervasive.
The narrow sectarian cannot read astronomy with impunity. The creeds of his church shrivel like dried leaves at the door of the observatory.
The lover of letters loves power too.
There are dull and bright, sacred and profane, coarse and fine egotists. It is a disease that, like influenza, falls on all constitutions. In the distemper known to physicians as chorea, the patient sometimes turns round, and continues to spin slowly in one spot. Is egotism a metaphysical varioloid of this malady?
Ennui shortens life, and bereaves the day of its light.
There is genius as well in virtue as in intellect. 'Tis the doctrine of faith over works.
God knows that all sorts of gentlemen knock at the door; but whenever used in strictness and with any emphasis, the name will be found to point at original energy.
The flowering of civilization is the finished man, the man of sense, of grace, of accomplishment, of social power--the gentleman.
Our globe discovers its bidden virtues, not only in heroes and arch-angels, but in gossips and nurses.
We are disgusted by gossip; yet it is of importance to keep the angels in their proprieties.
I grieve that grief can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into real nature.
Hither rolls the storm of heat; I feel its finer billows beat Like a sea which me infolds; Heat with viewless fingers moulds, Swells, and mellows, and matures, Paints, and flavors, and allures, Bird and brier inly warms, Still enriches and transforms, Gives the reed and lily length, Adds to oak and oxen strength, Transforming what it doth infold, Life out of death, new out of old.
The heroic soul does not sell its justice and its nobleness. It does not ask to dine nicely and to sleep warm. The essence of greatness is the perception that virtue is enough. Poverty is its ornament. It does not need plenty, and can very well abide its loss.
There is a property in the horizon which no man has, but he whose eyes can integrate all the parts,--that is, the poet.
Lawyers are a prudent race though not very fond of liberty.
Morality is the object of government.
Do not fear to put novels into the hands of young people as an occasional holiday experiment, but above all, good poetry in all kinds,--epic, tragedy, lyric. If we can touch the imagination, we serve them; they will never forget it.
Behold the Sea, The opaline, the plentiful and strong, Yet beautiful as is the rose in June, Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July; Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds, Purger of earth, and medicine of men; Creating a sweet climate by my breath, Washing out harms and griefs from memory, And, in my mathematic ebb and flow, Giving a hint of that which changes not.
Age, like woman, requires fit surroundings.
When we see a special reformer we feel like asking him, What right have you, sir, to your own virtue? Is virtue piecemeal?
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