Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Longfellow

A boy’s will is the wind’s will.

A face that had a story to tell. How different faces are in this particular! Some of them speak not. They are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date.

A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely.

A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years’ study of books.

A tender heart, a will inflexible.

A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.

A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

A word that has been said may be unsaid; it is but air. But when a deed is done, it cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow.

Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the spring,—the great annual miracle of the blossoming of Aaron’s rod, repeated on myriads and myriads of branches!

Ah, to build, to build! that is the noblest art of all the arts.

Alas! it is not till time with reckless hand has torn out half the leaves from the book of human life, to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number, and to remember faintly at first, and then more clearly, that upon the early pages of that book was written a story of happy influence which he would fain read over again.

All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

All the means of action, the shapeless masses—the materials—lie everywhere about us. What we need is the celestial fire to change the flint into transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius!

All was ended now, the hope and the fear and the sorrow, all the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, all the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience.

Ambition’s cradle oftenest is its grave.

And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.

And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

Art is Long, and Time is fleeting.

Art is power.

Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother’s face.

Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.

As the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.

As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain.

As unto the bow the string is, so unto the man is woman; though she bends him, she obeys him; though she draws him, yet she follows, useless each without the other.

At my feet the city slumbered.

Authors have a greater right than any copyright, though it is generally unacknowledged or disregarded, They have a right to the reader’s civility. There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it, and to these the author has a claim. Yet many people think that when they buy a book they buy with it the right to abuse the author.

Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.

Ballads are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes and by-paths of literature, in the genial summer-time.

Believe me, every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.

Beneath me flows the Rhine, and, like the stream of time, it flows amid the ruins of the past. I see myself therein, and know that I am old. Thou, too, shalt be old. Be wise in season. Like the stream of thy life runs the stream beneath us. Down from the distant Alps, out into the wide world, it bursts away, like a youth from the house of his fathers. Broad-breasted and strong, and with earnest endeavors, like manhood, it makes itself a way through these difficult mountain-passes. And at length in old age, it falters, and its steps are weary and slow, and it sinks into the sand, and through its grave passes into the great ocean, which is its eternity.

Books are sepulchres of thought.

Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.

Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.

Death brings us again to our friends. They are waiting for us, and we shall not be long. They have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven. They stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us with the countenance of affection which they wore on earth,—yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual.

Defeat may be victory in disguise.

Don Quixote thought he could have made beautiful bird-cages and toothpicks if his brain had not been so full of ideas of chivalry. Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather than its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as the bad heart of Procrustes turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

Emblems of our own great resurrection, emblems of the bright and better land.

Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm.

Even cities have their graves!

Even He who died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought—the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.

Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

Every human heart is human.

Every man has a paradise around him until he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden. And even then there are holy hours, when this angel sleeps, and man comes back, and with the innocent eyes of a child looks into his lost paradise again.

Fair words gladden so many a heart.

Fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

Feet that run on willing errands!

Footprints on the sands of time.

For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.

From labor there shall come forth rest.

Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the Land of Song; there lies the poet’s native land.

God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting.

God’s illumined promise.

Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God, and secret passages running deep beneath external nature, give their thoughts intercourse with higher intelligences, which strengthens and consoles them, and of which the labourers on the surface do not even dream.

He has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world, and the glories of a modern one.

He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

He the sweetest of all singers.

He used words as mere stepping-stones, upon which, with a free and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and recrosses the bright and rushing stream of thought.

Her face had a wonderful fascination in it. It was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of a rising soul shining so peacefully through it. At times it wore an expression of seriousness, of sorrow even; and then seemed to make the very air bright with what the Italian poets so beautifully call the “lampeggiar dell’ angelico riso,”—the lightning of the angelic smile.

His heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.

His thoughts are like mummies, embalmed in spices and wrapped about with curious envelopments; but, within, those thoughts themselves are kings.

History casts its shadow far into the land of song.

Home-keeping hearts are happiest.

Hospitality sitting with gladness.

How absolute and omnipotent is the silence of night! And yet the stillness seems almost audible! From all the measureless depths of air around us comes a half-sound, a half-whisper, as if we could hear the crumbling and falling away of earth and all created things, in the great miracle of nature, decay and reproduction, ever beginning, never ending,—the gradual lapse and running of the sand in the great hour-glass of Time.

How beautiful it was, falling so silently, all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead!

How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

How like they are to human things!

How wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul! The intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and in his eye; and the heart of man is written upon his countenance. But the soul reveals itself in the voice only, as God revealed himself to the prophet of old, in “the still, small voice,” and in a voice from the burning bush. The soul of man is audible, not visible. A sound alone betrays the flowing of the eternal fountain, invisible to man!

I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful, which, like the planets, have a steady, lambent light—are luminous, but not sparkling.

I hear the wind among the trees playing celestial symphonies.

I love these rural dances—from my heart I love them. This world, at best, is full of care and sorrow; the life of a poor man is so stained with the sweat of his brow, there is so much toil and struggling and anguish and disappointment here below, that I gaze with delight on a scene where all those are laid aside and forgotten, and the heart of the toil-worn peasant seems to throw off its load.

I should think your tongue had broken its chain!

I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning.

If spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change! But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous, and the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

If we love one another, nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen.

If you once understand an author’s character, the comprehension of his writings becomes easy.

In character, in manners, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.

It is a very indiscreet and troublesome ambition which cares so much about fame; about what the world says of us; to be always looking in the faces of others for approval; to be always anxious about the effect of what we do or say; to be always shouting, to hear the echoes of our own voices.

It is by the vicar’s skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry.

It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.

It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know it has begun. A thousand heralds proclaim it to the listening air, a thousand messengers betray it to the eye. Tone, act, attitude and look, the signals upon the countenance, the electric telegraph of touch—all these betray the yielding citadel before the word itself is uttered, which, like the key surrendered, opens every avenue and gate of entrance, and renders retreat impossible.

It is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without emotion, there are names I can never hear spoken without almost starting.

It is the Indian summer. The rising sun blazes through the misty air like a conflagration. A yellowish, smoky haze fills the atmosphere, and a filmy mist lies like a silver lining on the sky. The wind is soft and low. It wafts to us the odor of forest leaves, that hang wilted on the dripping branches, or drop into the stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the autumnal rains had washed them out. Orange, yellow and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet hue. The birds, too, have taken wing, and have left their roofless dwellings. Not the whistle of a robin, not the twitter of an eavesdropping swallow, not the carol of one sweet, familiar voice. All gone. Only the dismal cawing of a crow, as he sits and curses that the harvest is over; or the chit-chat of an idle squirrel, the noisy denizen of a hollow tree, the mendicant friar of a large parish, the absolute monarch of a dozen acorns.

It seems impossible they should ever grow to be men, and drag the heavy artillery along the dusty road of life.

Know how sublime a thing it is to suffer and be strong.

Learn to labor and to wait.

Let the dead past bury its dead!

Let us be merciful as well as just.

Let us then be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship.

Life hath quicksands; life hath snares.

Life is the gift of God, and is divine.

Like a river down the gutter roars the rain, the welcome rain!

Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought, love gives itself, but is not bought.

Look not mournfully into the past,—it comes not back again; wisely improve the present,—it is thine; go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear, and with a manly heart.

Look, then, into thine heart and write!

Love gives itself, but is not bought.

Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.

Love is ever busy with his shuttle, is ever weaving into life’s dull warp bright, gorgeous flowers, and scenes Arcadian.

Make not thyself the judge of any man.

Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs.

Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.

Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings,—as some savage tribes determine the power of their muskets by their recoil; that being considered best which fairly prostrates the purchaser.

Men of genius are often dull and inert in society, as the blazing meteor when it descends to the earth is only a stone.

Men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame, namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.

Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.

Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning,—an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies.

Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

Nature alone is permanent.

Nature is a revelation of God.

Nature with folded hands seemed there, kneeling at her evening prayer.

Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others.

No literature is complete until the language in which it is written is dead.

Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds.

None but yourself who are your greatest foe.

Nothing is too late till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

Nothing now is left but a majestic memory.

Nothing with God can be accidental.

O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

O day of rest! how beautiful, how fair, how welcome to the weary and the old! day of the Lord! and truce of earthly care! day of the Lord, as all our days should be.

O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!

Oh, how beautiful is love! Even thou that sneerest and laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are near thee,—thou too must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone, and confess that a foolish world is prone to laugh in public at what in private it reveres as one of the highest impulses of our nature; namely, love.

Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on for him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth under the bright and glorious sky!

On her cheek blushes the richness of an autumn sky with ever-shifting beauty.

One-half of the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.

“Patience!”***“have faith and thy prayer will be answered!”

Patient endurance is Godlike.

People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.

Perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word: Wait!

Prayer is innocence’s friend; and willingly flieth incessant ’twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

Resolve, and thou art free.

Round about what is lies a whole mysterious world of what might be—a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen. By going out a few minutes sooner or later, by stopping to speak with a friend at a corner, by meeting this man or that, or by turning down this street instead of the other, we may let slip some great occasion of good, or avoid some impending evil, by which the whole current of our lives would have been changed. There is no possible solution to the dark enigma but the one word “Providence.”

Silence and solitude, the soul’s best friends.

Simplicity is the character of the spring of life, costliness becomes its autumn; but a neatness and purity, like that of the snow-drop or lily of the valley, is the peculiar fascination of beauty, to which it lends enchantment, and gives what amiability is to the mind.

Sit in revery, and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle sea-shore of the mind.

So much to pardon, so much to pity, so much to admire!

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon, like a magician, extended his golden wand o’er the landscape.

Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it.

Some feelings are quite untranslatable; no language has yet been found for them. They gleam upon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet when we bring them close to us, and hold them up to the light of reason, lose their beauty all at once, as glow worms which gleam with such a spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought in where the candles are lighted, are found to be only worms like so many others.

Some must follow, and some command, though all are made of clay!

Sometimes we may learn more from a man’s errors than from his virtues.

Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.

Still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.

Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

Tales that have the rime of age.

That unfathomed, boundless sea, the silent grave!

The air is full of farewells to the dying and mournings for the dead.

The air of summer was sweeter than wine.

The architect built his great heart into those sculptured stones.

The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcome.

The babbling day has touched the hem of night’s garment, and, weary and still, drops asleep in her bosom.

The belfries of all Christendom now roll along the unbroken song of peace on earth, good will to men!

The blossoms of passions, gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance; but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

The day is dark and cold and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary.

The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night.

The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!

The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time; giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move, the clock stands still.

The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness,—the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.

The glory of Him who hung His masonry pendent on nought, when the world He created.

The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy.

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and they are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest.

The heaven of poetry and romance still lies around us and within us.

The history of the past is a mere puppet-show. A little man comes out and blows a little trumpet, and goes in again. You look for something new, and lo! another little man comes out, and blows another little trumpet, and goes in again. And it is all over.

The hooded clouds, like friars, tell their beads in drops of rain.

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

The intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance; but the soul reveals itself in the voice only.

The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.

The language spoken by angels.

The laws of nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable. The elements have no forbearance. The fire burns, the water drowns, the air consumes, the earth buries. And perhaps it would be well for our race if the punishment of crimes against the laws of man were as inevitable as the punishment of crimes against the laws of nature,—were man as unerring in his judgments as nature.

The leaves of memory seem to make a mournful rustle in the dark.

The little I have seen of the world teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger. When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed through, the brief pulsations of joy, the feverish inquietude of hope and fear, the pressure of want, the desertion of friends, I would fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with Him from whose hand it came.

The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.

The mighty hopes that make us men.

The mind of the scholar, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armor should be somewhat bruised by rude encounters, even, than hang forever rusting on the wall.

The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

The natural alone is permanent.

The passing years had drunk a portion of the light from her eyes, and left their traces on her cheeks, as birds that drink at lakes leave their footprints on the margin. But the pleasant smile reminded him of the bygone days.

The pen became a clarion.

The pleasant books, that silently among our household, treasures take familiar places.

The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken.

The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.

The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In the morning of life they all lie behind us; at noon we trample them under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening, before us.

The soul never grows old.

The star of the unconquered will.

The strength of criticism lies only in the weakness of the thing criticised.

The sun stands, at midnight, blood-red, on the mountains of the North.

The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, and doing well whatever you do without a thought of fame. If it comes at all it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after.

The thoughts of God in the heavens.

The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.

The world loves a spice of wickedness.

The young may die, but the old must!

Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

There is no death! What seems so is transition.

There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended, but has one vacant chair!

There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.

There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.

These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

This country is not priest-ridden, but press-ridden.

This is the field and acre of our God; this is the place where human harvests grow.

This is the forest primeval.

Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep.

Thou hast betrayed thy secret as a bird betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it.

Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music, flooding the earth with flowers and the air with melodies vernal.

’Tis sweet to stammer one letter of the Eternal’s language; on earth it is called forgiveness.

Thy voice is a celestial melody.

Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.

Time has laid his hand upon my heart gently, not smiting it; but as a harper lays his open palm upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

Time is the Life of the Soul.

To be infatuated with the power of one’s own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person’s mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.

To sleep—there is a drowsy mellifluence in the very word that would almost serve to interpret its meaning—to shut up the senses and hoodwink the soul; to dismiss the world; to escape from one’s self; to be in ignorance of our own existence; to stagnate upon the earth; just breathing out the hours, not living them—“doing no mischief, only dreaming of it;” neither merry nor melancholy, something between both, and better than either. Best friend of frail humanity, and, like all other friends, it is best estimated in its loss.

To the poetic mind all things are poetical.

To-day, to-morrow, every day, to thousands the end of the world is close at hand. And why should we fear it? We walk here, as it were, in the crypts of life; at times, from the great cathedral above us, we can hear the organ and the chanting choir; we see the light stream through the open door, when some friend goes up before us; and shall we fear to mount the narrow staircase of the grave that leads us out of this uncertain twilight into life eternal?

War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous sweet is the smell of powder.

We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

We may build more splendid habitations, fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, but we cannot buy with gold the old associations.

We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

Weak minds make treaties with the passions they cannot overcome, and try to purchase happiness at the expense of principle; but the resolute will of a strong man scorns such means, and struggles nobly with his foe to achieve great deeds.

Welcome, Disappointment! Thy hand is cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend. Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice of a friend. Oh, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success!

Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak.

What a glorious thing human life is,***and how glorious man’s destiny!

What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.

What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour, the sweet and soothing hour of twilight, the hour of love, the hour of adoration, the hour of rest, when we think of those we love only to regret that we have not loved them more dearly, when we remember our enemies only to forgive them.

What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand—day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries—these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of time, not time itself. Time is the life of the soul.

What rapturous flights of sound! what thrilling, pathetic chimes! what wild, joyous revelry of passion! what an expression of agony and woe! All the feelings of suffering and rejoicing humanity sympathized with and finding a voice in those tones.

What seem to us but dim funereal tapers may be heaven’s distant lamps.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

When she passed it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?

Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, their beards of icicles and snow.

With many readers brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable mines of gold under ground.

Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.

Writ in the climate of heaven, and in the language spoken by angels.

Your supper is like the Hidalgo’s dinner; very little meat, and a great deal of table-cloth.

Youth comes but once in a lifetime.