Every Noble Life Becomes A Revelation Of

The Books That Charmed Us In Youth Recall The Delight Ever Afterwards; We Are Hardly Persuaded There Are Any Like Them, Any Deserving Our Equal Affections.

Like Birds Of Passage, The Instincts Drift The Soul Adventurously Beyond The Horizon Of Sensible Things, As If Intent On Convoying It To The Mother Country From Whence It Had Flown.

Pity The Mother Who Assumes The Name Without Being All This Implies!

Heaven Trims Our Lamps While We Sleep.

An Age Deficient In Idealism Has Ever Been One Of Immorality And Superficial Attainment, Since Without The Sense Of Ideas, Nobility Of Character Becomes Of Rare Attainment, If Possible.