Wit must be without effort. Wit is play, not work; a nimbleness of the fancy, not a laborious effort of the will; a license, a holiday, a carnival of thought and feeling, not a trifling with speech, a constraint upon language, a duress upon words.
Honesty is not only "the first step toward greatness," - it is greatness itself.
The light in the world comes principally from two sources,-the sun, and the student's lamp.
As threshing separates the wheat from the chaff, so does affliction purify virtue.
Living with a saint is more grueling than being one.
Earth took her shining station as a star, In Heaven's dark hall, high up the crowd of worlds.
Dishonesty is a forsaking of permanent for temporary advantages.
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.
Constant companionship is not enjoyable, any more than constant eating. We sit too long at the table of friendship, when we outsit our appetites for each other's thoughts.
Tranquil pleasures last the longest; we are not fitted to bear the burden of great joys.
The language of the heart--the language which "comes from the heart" and "goes to the heart"--is always simple, always graceful, and always full of power, but no art of rhetoric can teach it. It is at once the easiest and most difficult language--difficult, since it needs a heart to speak it; easy, because its periods though rounded and full of harmony, are still unstudied.
It is seldom that we find out how great are our resources until we are thrown upon them.
There is no sense of weariness like that which closes in a day of eager and unintermittent pursuit of pleasure. The apple is eaten, but "the core sticks in the throat." Expectation has then given way to ennui, appetite to satiety.
Woman's power is over the affections. A beautiful dominion is hers; but she risks its forfeiture when she seeks to extend it.
Passion looks not beyond the moment of its existence. Better, it says, the kisses of love to day, than the felicities of heaven afar off.
A genuine passion is like a mountain stream; it admits of no impediment; it cannot go backward; it must go forward.
Pure motives do not insure perfect results.
Love's sweetest meanings are unspoken; the full heart knows no rhetoric of words.
Can that which is the greatest virtue in philosophy, doubt (called by Galileo the father of invention), be in religion what the priests term it, the greatest of sins?
It is some compensation for great evils, that they enforce great lessons.
There are ceremonious bows that repel one like a cudgel.
In the assurance of strength there is strength; and they are the weakest, however strong, who have no faith in themselves or their powers.
Rejecting the miracles of Christ, we still have the miracle of Christ Himself.
It may almost be held that the hope of commercial gain has done nearly as much for the cause of truth as even the love of truth.
It is only an error of judgment to make a mistake, but it argues an infirmity of character to adhere to it when discovered.
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