If I Were A Maker Of Books

A Man May Be Humble Through Vainglory.

But The Touch Or Company Of Any Man Whatsoever Stirreth Up Their Heat, Which In Their Solitude Was Hushed And Quiet, And Lay As Cinders Raked Up In Ashes.

Life In Itself Is Neither Good Nor Evil, It Is The Place Of Good And Evil, According To What You Make It.

It Is The Part Of Cowardliness, And Not Of Virtue, To Seek To Squat Itself In Some Hollow Lurking Hole, Or To Hide Herself Under Some Massive Tomb, Thereby To Shun The Strokes Of Fortune.

We Imagine Much More Appropriately An Artisan On His Toilet Seat Or On His Wife Than A Great President, Venerable By His Demeanorand His Ability. It Seems To Us That They Do Not Stoop From Their Lofty Thrones Even To Live.