There Are Epidemics Of Nobleness As Well

To Be Enthusiastic About Doing Much With Human Nature Is A Foolish Business Indeed; And, Throwing Himself Into His Work As He Was Doing, And Expecting So Much From It, Would Not The Tide Ebb As Strongly As It Was Flowing? It Is A Rash Game This Setting Our Hearts On Any Future Beyond What We Have Our Own Selves Control Over. Things Do Not Walk As We Settle With Ourselves They Ought To Walk, And To Hope Is Almost The Correlative Of To Be Disappointed.

We Enter The World Alone, We Leave It Alone.

Beautiful Is Old Age—beautiful As The Slow-dropping Mellow Autumn Of A Rich Glorious Summer. In The Old Man, Nature Has Fulfilled Her Work; She Loads Him With Blessings; She Fills Him With The Fruits Of A Well-spent Life; And, Surrounded By His Children And His Children's Children, She Rocks Him Softly Away To A Grave, To Which He Is Followed With Blessings. God Forbid We Should Not Call It Beautiful.

I Scarcely Know A Professional Man I Can Like, And Certainly Not One Who Has Been What The World Calls Successful, That I Should The Least Wish To Resemble.

Nature Is Not A Partisan, But Out Of Her Ample Treasue House She Produces Children In Infinite Variety, Of Which She Is Equally The Mother, And Disowns None Of Them.