Memory Is The Scribe Of The Soul.

The Sun, Moving As It Does, Sets Up Processes Of Change And Becoming And Decay, And By Its Agency The Finest And Sweetest Water Is Every Day Carried Up And Is Dissolved Into Vapour And Rises To The Upper Region, Where It Is Condensed Again By The Cold And So Returns To The Earth. This, As We Have Said Before, Is The Regular Course Of Nature.

Quality Is Not An Act, It Is A Habit.

Those Whose Days Are Consumed In The Low Pursuits Of Avarice, Or The Gaudy Frivolties Of Fashion, Unobservant Of Nature's Lovelinessof Demarcation, Nor On Which Side Thereof An Intermediate Form Should Lie.

It Is Evident, Then, That There Is A Sort Of Education In Which Parents Should Train Their Sons, Not As Being Useful Or Necessary, But Because It Is Liberal Or Noble.

All Teaching And All Intellectual Learning Come About From Already Existing Knowledge.