Nature Is Less Partial Than She Appears,

The Better One Is Morally The Less Aware They Are Of Their Virtue.

Beautiful Is Old Age—beautiful As The Slow-dropping Mellow Autumn Of A Rich Glorious Summer. In The Old Man, Nature Has Fulfilled Her Work; She Loads Him With Blessings; She Fills Him With The Fruits Of A Well-spent Life; And, Surrounded By His Children And His Children's Children, She Rocks Him Softly Away To A Grave, To Which He Is Followed With Blessings. God Forbid We Should Not Call It Beautiful.

To Be Enthusiastic About Doing Much With Human Nature Is A Foolish Business Indeed; And, Throwing Himself Into His Work As He Was Doing, And Expecting So Much From It, Would Not The Tide Ebb As Strongly As It Was Flowing? It Is A Rash Game This Setting Our Hearts On Any Future Beyond What We Have Our Own Selves Control Over. Things Do Not Walk As We Settle With Ourselves They Ought To Walk, And To Hope Is Almost The Correlative Of To Be Disappointed.

For Me This World Was Neither So High Nor So Low As The Church Would Have It; Chequered Over With Its Wild Light Shadows, I Could Love It And All The Children Of It, More Dearly, Perhaps, Because It Was Not All Light.

Men Think To Mend Their Condition By A Change Of Circumstances. They Might As Well Hope To Escape From Their Shadows.