The Artist Must Imitate That Which Is

The Misery Of Human Life Is Made Up Of Large Masses, Each Separated From The Other By Certain Intervals. One Year The Death Of A Child; Years After, A Failure In Trade; After Another Longer Or Shorter Interval, A Daughter May Have Married Unhappily; In All But The Singularly Unfortunate, The Integral Parts That Compose The Sum-total Of The Unhappiness Of A Man's Life Are Easily Counted And Distinctly Remembered.

Never Can True Courage Dwell With Them, Who, Playing Tricks With Conscience, Dare Not Look At Their Own Vices.

To Most Men Experience Is Like The Stern Lights Of A Ship, Which Illuminate Only The Track It Has Passed.

Memory, Bosom-spring Of Joy.

Is Duty A Mere Sport, Or An Employ! Life An Entrusted Talent Or A Toy!