Books Are Embalmed Minds.

The Body Of A Sensualist Is The Coffin Of A Dead Soul.

He That Shrinks From The Grave With Too Great A Dread, Has An Invisible Fear Behind Him Pushing Him Into It.

Many Children, Many Cares; No Children, No Felicity.

Words Of Praise, Indeed, Are Almost As Necessary To Warm A Child Into A Genial Life As Acts Of Kindness And Affection. Judicious Praise Is To Children What The Sun Is To Flowers.

The Great Artist Is A Slave To His Ideals.