The Coldest Word Was Once A Glowing

Books Are A Triviality. Life Alone Is Great.

What I Loved In The Man Was His Health, His Unity With Himself; All People And All Things Seemed To Find Their Quite Peaceable Adjustment With Him, Not A Proud Domineering One, As After Doubtful Contest, But A Spontaneous-looking Peaceable, Even Humble One.

Even In The Meanest Sorts Of Labor, The Whole Soul Of A Man Is Composed Into A Kind Of Real Harmony The Instant He Sets Himself To Work.

Considering The Multitude Of Mortals That Handle The Pen In These Days, And Can Mostly Spell, And Write Without Glaring Violations Of Grammar, The Question Naturally Arises: How Is It, Then, That No Work Proceeds From Them, Bearing Any Stamp Of Authenticity And Permanence; Of Worth For More Than One Day?

On The Whole, I Would Bid You Stand Up To Your Work, Whatever It May Be, And Not Be Afraid Of It; Not In Sorrows Or Contradictions To Yield, But To Push On Towards The Goal.