Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay.

The world is his who can see through its pretension. What deafness, what stone-blind custom, what overgrown error you behold, is there only by sufferance,--by your sufferance. See it to be a lie, and you have already dealt it its mortal blow.

Man is the broken giant, and in all his weakness both his body and his mind are invigorated by habits of conversation with nature.

The day is always his, who works in it with serenity and great aims.

There comes a period of the imagination to each--a later youth--the power of beauty, the power of looks, of poetry.

Tis the old secret of the gods that they come in low disguises. 'Tis the vulgar great who come dizened with gold and jewels. Real kings hide away their crowns in their wardrobes, and affect a plain and poor exterior.

The world belongs to the energetic.