We Are Scarcely Apt To Berate The

God Is The Author, Men Are Only The Players. These Grand Pieces Which Are Played Upon Earth Have Been Composed In Heaven.

A Lui La Foi, A' Elle Le Doute, A' Elle Le Fardeau Le Plus Lourd: La Femme Ne Souffre-t-elle Pas Toujours Pour Deux? For Him, Faith; For Her, Doubt And For Her Theheavier Load: Does Not The Woman Always Suffer For Both?

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

L'amour N'est Pas Seulement Un Sentiment, Il Est Un Art Aussi. Love Is Not Only A Feeling; It Is Also An Art.

It Is Very Difficult To Pass From Pleasure To Work. Accordingly More Poems Have Been Swallowed Up By Sorrow Than Ever Happiness Caused To Blaze Forth In Unparalleled Radiance.