Still The Race Of Hero Spirits Pass

Do Noble Things, Not Dream Them All Day Long: And So Make Life, Death, And The Vast Forever One Grand, Sweet Song.

A Garden, Sir, Wherein All Rainbows And Flowers Were Heaped Together.

In The Light Of Fuller Day, Of Purer Science, Holier Laws.

A Blessed Thing It Is To Have A Friend; One Human Soul Whom We Can Trust Utterly; Who Knows The Best And Worst Of Us, And Who Loves Us In Spite Of All Our Faults; Who Will Speak The Honest Truth To Us, While The World Flatters Us To Our Face, And Laughs At Us Behind Our Back; Who Will Give Us Counsel And Reproof In A Day Of Prosperity And Self-conceit; But Who, Again, Will Comfort And Encourage Us In Days Of Difficulty And Sorrow, When The World Leaves Us Alone To Fight Our Own Battle As We Can.

After All, There Is Such A Thing As Looking Like A Gentleman. There Are Men Whose Class No Dirt Or Rags Can Hide, Any More Than They Could Ulysses. I Have Seen Such Men In Plenty Among Workmen, Too; But, On The Whole, The Gentleman--by Whom I Do Not Mean Just Now The Rich--have The Superiority In That Point. But Not, Please God, Forever. Give Us The Same Air, Water, Exercise, Education, Good Society, And You Will See Whether This "haggardness," This "coarseness" (etc., For The List Is Too Long To Specify), Be An Accident, Or A Property, Of The Man Of The People.