A Deep Meaning Often Lies In Old

Secrecy Is For The Happy,--misery, Hopeless Misery, Needs No Veil; Under A Thousand Suns It Dares Act Openly.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

It Is Often Wise To Reveal That Which Cannot Be Concealed For Long.

A Noble Soul Spreads Even Over A Face In Which The Architectonic Beauty Is Wanting An Irresistible Grace, And A Often Even Triumphs Over The Natural Disfavor.

That Which Is So Universal As Death Must Be A Benefit.