Chance Often Gives Us That Which We

We Are Earth's Children, And Life Is The Same In Sap As In Blood; All That The Earth, Our Mother, Feels And Expresses To The Eye By Her Form And Aspect, In Melancholy Or In Splendor, Finds An Echo Within Us.

What Is Our Life But A Succession Of Preludes To That Unknown Song Whose First Solemn Note Is Sounded By Death?

Joy Is A Flame Which Association Alone Can Keep Alive, And Which Goes Out Unless Communicated.

It Is In The Habits Of Lawyers That Every Accusation Appears Insufficient If They Do Not Exaggerate It Even To Calumny; It Is Thus That Justice Itself Loses Its Sanctity And Its Respect Amongst Men.

Music Is The Literature Of The Heart; It Commences Where Speech Ends.