Few minds wear out; more rust out.

I once asked a distinguished artist what place he gave to labor in art. "Labor," he in effect said, "is the beginning, the middle, and the end of art." Turning then to another--"And you," I inquired, "what do you consider as the great force in art?" "Love," he replied. In their two answers I found but one truth.

Discretion is the salt, and fancy the sugar of life; the one preserves, the other sweetens it.

Pure motives do not insure perfect results.

The cheerful live longest in years, and afterwards in our regards. Cheerfulness is the off-shoot of goodness.

The passions are like fire, useful in a thousand ways and dangerous only in one, through their excess.

Excessive sensibility is only another name for morbid self-consciousness.