Background Image

...

Always The Idea Of Unbroken Quiet Broods Around The Grave. It Is A Port Where The Storms Of Life Never Beat, And The Forms That Have Been Tossed On Its Chafing Waves Lie Quiet Forevermore. There The Child Nestles As Peacefully As Ever It Lay In Its Mother's Arms, And The Workman's Hands Lie Still By His Side, And The Thinker's Brain Is Pillowed In Silent Mystery, And The Poor Girl's Broken Heart Is Steeped In A Balm That Extracts Its Secret Woe, And Is In The Keeping Of A Charity That Covers All Blame.

-Edwin Hubbel Chapin

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

Always The Idea Of

Edwin Hubbel Chapin

...

Always The Idea Of Unbroken Quiet Broods Around The Grave. It Is A Port Where The Storms Of Life Never Beat, And The Forms That Have Been Tossed On Its Chafing Waves Lie Quiet Forevermore. There The Child Nestles As Peacefully As Ever It Lay In Its Mother's Arms, And The Workman's Hands Lie Still By His Side, And The Thinker's Brain Is Pillowed In Silent Mystery, And The Poor Girl's Broken Heart Is Steeped In A Balm That Extracts Its Secret Woe, And Is In The Keeping Of A Charity That Covers All Blame.

Views: 9

Topic

More From Edwin Hubbel Chapin

There Must Be Something Beyond Man In This World. Even On Attaining To His Highest Possibilities, He Is Like A Bird Beating Against His Cage. There Is Something Beyond, O Deathless Like A Sea-shell, Moaning For The Bosom Of The Ocean To Which You Belong!

The Greatest Successes Grow Out Of Great Failures. In Numerous Instances The Result Is Better That Comes After A Series Of Abortive Experiences Than It Would Have Been If It Had Come At Once; For All These Successive Failures Induce A Skill Which Is So Much Additional Power Working Into The Final Achievement.... The Hand That Evokes Such Perfect Music From The Instrument Has Often Failed In Its Touch, And Bungled Among The Keys.... Every Disappointed Effort Fences In And Indicates The Only Possible Path Of Success, And Makes It Easier To Find.

Under The Shadow Of Earthly Disappointment, All Unconscious To Ourselves, Our Divine Redeemer Is Walking By Our Side.

Life, Whether In This World Or Any Other, Is The Sum Of Our Attainment, Our Experience, Our Character. The Conditions Are Secondary. In What Other World Shall We Be More Surely Than We Are Here?

The Highest Genius Never Flowers In Satire, But Culminates In Sympathy With That Which Is Best In Human Nature, And Appeals To It.

Not Only Is Music A Beautiful And Sublime Science, The Study Of Which Ennobles And Purifies The Mind Of Its Votary, But How Many And Excellent Are Its Ministries To Others!

Truth Is New, As Well As Old. It Has New Forms; And Where You May Find A New Statement, An Earnest Statement, You May Conclude That By The Law Of Progress It Is More Likely To Be A Correct Statement Than That Which Has Been Repeated For Ages By The Lips Of Tradition.

Tomorrow May Never Come To Us. We Do Not Live In Tomorrow. We Cannot Find It In Any Of Our Title-deeds. The Man Who Owns Whole Blocks Of Real Estate, And Great Ships On The Sea, Does Not Own A Single Minute Of Tomorrow. Tomorrow! It Is A Mysterious Possibility, Not Yet Born. It Lies Under The Seal Of Midnight-behind The Veil Of Glittering Constellations.

It Is A Most Fearful Fact To Think Of, That In Every Heart There Is Some Secret Spring That Would Be Weak At The Touch Of Temptation, And That Is Liable To Be Assailed. Fearful, And Yet Salutary To Think Of; For The Thought May Serve To Keep Our Moral Nature Braced. It Warns Us That We Can Never Stand At Ease, Or Lie Down In This Field Of Life, Without Sentinels Of Watchfulness And Campfires Of Prayer.

Certainly, Truth Should Be Strenuous And Bold; But The Strongest Things Are Not Always The Noisiest, As Any One May See Who Compares Scolding With Logic.

There Is No Tariff So Injurious As That With Which Sectarian Bigotry Guards Its Commodities. It Dwarfs The Soul By Shutting Out Truths From Other Continents Of Thought, And Checks The Circulation Of Its Own.

The Temptation Is Not Here, Where You Are Reading About It Or Praying About It. It Is Down In Your Shop, Among Bales And Boxes, Ten-penny Nails, And Sand-paper.

No Piled-up Wealth, No Social Station, No Throne, Reaches As High As That Spiritual Plane Upon Which Every Human Being Stands By Virtue Of His Humanity.

Pride Is The Master Sin Of The Devil, And The Devil Is The Father Of Lies.

The Devil Has Been Painted Swarthy, Cloven-footed, Horned, And Hideous. Do We Expect To See Him In That Shape? O, Surely It Would Be Better For Us, If He Did Come In That Shape! The Trouble Is The Devil Never Does Come In That Shape. He Comes By Chance, With Unregistered Signals, And In All Sorts Of Counterfeit Presentiments.

Glorify A Lie, Legalize A Lie, Arm And Equip A Lie, Consecrate A Lie With Solemn Forms And Awful Penalties, And After All It Is Nothing But A Lie. It Rots A Land And Corrupts A People Like Any Other Lie, And By And By The White Light Of God's Truth Shines Clear Through It, And Shows It To Be A Lie.

However Logical Our Induction, The End Of The Thread Is Fastened Upon The Assurance Of Faith.

I Should Not Like To Preach To A Congregation Who All Believed As I Believe. I Would As Lief Preach To A Basket Of Eggs In Their Smooth Compactness And Oval Formality.

Christ Illustrates The Purport Of Life As He Descends From His Transfiguration To Toil, And Goes Forward To Exchange That Robe Of Heavenly Brightness For The Crown Of Thorns.

What A Proof Of The Divine Tenderness Is There In The Human Heart Itself, Which Is The Organ And Receptacle Oft So Many Sympathies! When We Consider How Exquisite Are Those Conditions By Which It Is Even Made Capable Of So Much Suffering--the Capabilities Of A Child's Heart, Of A Mother's Heart,--what Must Be The Nature Of Him Who Fashioned Its Depths, And Strung Its Chords.

Tribulation Will Not Hurt You, Unless As It Too Often Does; It Hardens You And Makes You Sour, Narrow And Skeptical

No Language Can Express The Power, And Beauty, And Heroism, And Majesty Of A Mother's Love. It Shrinks Not Where Man Cowers, And Grows Stronger Where Man Faints, And Over Wastes Of Worldly Fortunes Sends The Radiance Of Its Quenchless Fidelity Like A Star.

Munificent Nature Follows The Methods Of The Divine And True, And Rounds All Things To Her Perfect Law. While Nations Are Convulsed With Blood And Violence, How Quietly The Grass Grows.

Into What Boundless Life, Does Education Admit Us. Every Truth Gained Through It Expands A Moment Of Time Into Illimitable Being--positively Enlarges Our Existence, And Endows Us With Qualities Which Time Cannot Weaken Or Destroy.

Seeking Heaven Through Righteousness Is Not Seeking Righteousness, But Something Else;--it Is Not Loving Goodness For Goodness' Sake, But For Its Rewards.

To Me There Is Something Thrilling And Exalting In The Thought That We Are Drifting Forward Into A Splendid Mystery-into Something That No Mortal Eye Hath Yet Seen, And No Intelligence Has Yet Declared.

Skepticism Has Never Founded Empires, Established Principals, Or Changed The World's Heart. The Great Doers In History Have Always Been People Of Faith.

A Man That Simply Loads Himself Down With Possessions Of Which He Has No Actual Need, When He Dies Slips Out Of Them--as A Little Insect Might Slip Out Of Some Parasite Shell Into Which It Has Ensconced Itself--into The Grave, And Is Forgotten.

Each Thing Lives According To Its Kind; The Heart By Love, The Intellect By Truth, The Higher Nature Of Man By Intimate Communion With God.

The Loss Of Fortune To A True Man Is But The Trumpet Challenge To Renewed Exertion, Not The Thunder Stroke Of Destruction.

A Patient, Humble Temper Gathers Blessings That Are Marred By The Peevish And Overlooked By The Aspiring.

Death, Is Not An End, But A Transition Crisis. All The Forms Of Decay Are But Masks Of Regeneration--the Secret Alembics Of Vitality.

The Downright Fanatic Is Nearer To The Heart Of Things Than The Cool And Slippery Disputant.

Courage Is Always Greatest When Blended With Meekness; Intellectual Ability Is Most Admirable When It Sparkles In The Setting Of A Modest Self-distrust; And Never Does The Human Soul Appear So Strong As When It Foregoes Revenge And Dares To Forgive An Injury.

Man Is Concentric: You Have To Take Fold After Fold Off Of Him Before You Get To The Centre Of His Personality. You Must Get Below His Animal Nature, Habits, Customs, Affections, Daily Life, And Sometimes Go Away Down Into The Heart Of The Man, Before You Know What Is Really In Him. But When You Get Into The Last Core Of These Concentric Rings Of Personality You Find A Sense Of The Infinite-a Consciousness Of Immortality Linked To Something Higher And Better.

I Will Tell You Where There Is Power: Where The Dew Lies Upon The Hills, And The Rain Has Moistened The Roots Of The Various Plant; Where The Sunshine Pours Steadily; Where The Brook Runs Babbling Along, There Is A Beneficent Power.

Break Up The Institution Of The Family, Deny The Inviolability Of Its Relations, And In A Little While There Would Not Be Any Humanity.

Never Does The Human Soul Appear So Strong As When It Foregoes Revenge, And Dares To Forgive An Injury.

If Angels Stoop From Visions Of More Than Earthly Beauty To Spells Of Less Than Earthly Worth, They Are But Fallen Angels, Mingling Divine Utterances With The Babblings Of Madness, And The Madness Is Not The Divineness.

How Often A New Affection Makes A New Man! The Sordid, Cowering Soul Turns Heroic. The Frivolous Girl Becomes The Steadfast Martyr Of Patience And Ministration, Transfigured By Deathless Love. The Career Of Bounding Impulses Turns Into An Anthem Of Sacred Deeds.

It Is A Great Thing, When Our Gethsemane Hours Come, When The Cup Of Bitterness Is Pressed To Our Lips ... To Feel That It Is Not Fate, That It Is Not Necessity, But Divine Love For Good Ends Working Upon Us.

The Best Answer To All Objections Urged Against Prayer Is The Fact That Man Cannot Help Praying; For We May Be Sure That That Which Is So Spontaneous And Ineradicable In Human Nature Has Its Fitting Objects And Methods In The Arrangements Of A Boundless Providence.

The More We Sympathize With Excellence, The More We Go Out Of Self, The More We Love, The Broader And Deeper Is Our Personality.

Humanity Is So Constituted That The Basest Criminal Represents You And Me, As Well As The Most Glorious Saint That Walks On High. We Are Reflected In All Other Men; All Other Men Are Embodied In Us.

Every Action Of Our Lives Touches On Some Chord That Will Vibrate In Eternity.

All Natural Results Are Spontaneous. The Diamond Sparkles Without Effort, And The Flowers Open Impulsively Beneath The Summer Rain. And True Religion Is A Spontaneous Thing,--as Natural As It Is To Weep, To Love, Or To Rejoice.

The Conservative May Clamor Against Reform, But He Might As Well Clamor Against The Centrifugal Force. He Sighs For The "good Old Times,"--he Might As Well Wish The Oak Back Into The Acorn.

Events Are Only The Shells Of Ideas; And Often It Is The Fluent Thought Of Ages That Is Crystallized In A Moment By The Stroke Of A Pen Or The Point Of A Bayonet.

The City Reveals The Moral Ends Of Being, And Sets The Awful Problem Of Life. The Country Soothes Us, Refreshes Us, Lifts Us Up With Religious Suggestion.

There Is Less Misery In Being Cheated Than In That Kind Of Wisdom Which Perceives, Or Thinks It Perceives, That All Mankind Are Cheats.

God's Work Is Freedom. Freedom Is Dear To His Heart. He Wishes To Make Man's Will Free, And At The Same Time Wishes It To Be Pure, Majestic, And Holy.

There Are Interests By The Sacrifice Of Which Peace Is Too Dearly Purchased. One Should Never Be At Peace To The Shame Of His Own Soul--to The Violation Of His Integrity Or Of His Allegiance To God.

No Great Truth Bursts Upon Man Without Having Its Hemisphere Of Darkness And Sorrow.

As For Environments, The Kingliest Being Ever Born In The Flesh Lay In A Manger.

He Who Today Utters A Bold Truth That Seems To Shock Some Old Institution With The Premonition Of Destruction, And That Scares Men From Their Propriety, Will A Hundred Years Hence Be Regarded As A Remarkably Conservative Man. And Yet The People Who Stand Peculiarly Upon What They Call The Foundations Of Conservatism, And Hold To Hard, Practical Facts, Now Stand Upon That Which One Hundred Years Ago Was Rank Heresy.

Physically, Man Is But An Atom In Space, And A Pulsation In Time. Spiritually, The Entire Outward Universe Receives Significance From Him, And The Scope Of His Existence Stretches Beyond The Stars.

Whatever You Truly Conceive Of In The Mind, Is Possible.

Public Feeling Now Is Apt To Side With The Persecuted, And Our Modern Martyr Is Full As Likely To Be Smothered With Roses As With Coals.

Mercy. That Is The Gospel. The Whole Of It In One Word.

Bigotry Dwarfs The Soul By Shutting Out The Truth.

Heaven Never Defaults. The Wicked Are Sure Of Their Wages, Sooner Or Later.

Patriotism! It Is Used To Define So Many Diversities, To Justify So Many Wrongs, To Compass So Many Ends, That Its Life Is Killed Out; It Becomes A Dead Word In The Vocabulary-a Blank Counter, To Be Moved To Any Part Of The Game; And That Flag Which, Streaming From The Mast-head Of Our Ship Of State, Striped With Martyr-blood, And Glistening With The Stars Of Lofty Promise, Should Always Indicate Our Worldwide Mission, And The Glorious Destinies That We Carry Forward, Is Bandied About In Every Selfish Skirmish, And Held Up As The Symbol Of Every Political Privateer.

We Must Die Alone. To The Very Verge Of The Stream Our Friends May Accompany Us; They May Bend Over Us, They May Cling To Us There; But That One Long Wave From The Sea Of Eternity Washes Up To The Lips, Sweeps Us From The Shore, And We Go Forth Alone! In That Untried And Utter Solitude, Then, What Can There Be For Us But The Pulsation Of That Assurance, "i Am Not Alone, Because The Father Is With Me!

The Church-bells Of Innumerable Sects Are All Chime-bells To-day, Ringing In Sweet Accordance Throughout Many Lands, And Awaking A Great Joy In The Heart Of Our Common Humanity.

The Worst Effect Of Sin Is Within And Is Manifest Not In Poverty, And Pain, And Bodily Defacement, But In The Discrowned Faculties, The Unworthy Love, The Low Ideal, The Brutalized And Enslaved Spirit.

Man Gains Wider Dominion By His Intellect Than By His Right Arm. The Mustard-seed Of Thought Is A Pregnant Treasury Of Vast Results. Like The Germ In The Egyptian Tombs Its Vitality Never Perishes; And Its Fruit Will Spring Up After It Has Been Buried For Long Ages.

Many A Man Who Might Walk Over Burning Ploughshares Into Heaven Stumbles From The Path Because There Is Gravel In His Shoes.

Hill And Valley, Seas And Constellations, Are But Stereotypes Of Divine Ideas Appealing To And Answered By The Living Soul Of Man.

It Is The Penalty Of Fame That A Man Must Ever Keep Rising. "get A Reputation, And Then Go To Bed," Is The Absurdest Of All Maxims. "keep Up A Reputation Or Go To Bed, "would Be Nearer The Truth.

Honor To The Idealists, Whether Philosophers Or Poets. They Have Improved Us By Mingling With Our Daily Pursuits Great And Transcendent Conceptions. They Have Thrown Around Our Sensual Life The Grandeur Of A Better, And Drawn Us Up From Contacts With The Temporal And The Selfish To Communion With Beauty And Truth And Goodness.

Goodness Consists Not In The Outward Things We Do, But In The Inward Thing We Are.

No Man Knows The Genuineness Of His Convictions Until He Has Sacrificed Something For Them.

Some Souls Are Ennobled And Elevated By Seeming Misfortunes, Which Then Become Blessings In Disguise.

The Productions Of The Press, Fast As Steam Can Make And Carry Them, Go Abroad Through All The Land, Silent As Snowflakes, But Potent As Thunder. It Is An Additional Tongue Of Steam And Lightning, By Which A Man Speaks His First Thought, His Instant Argument Or Grievance, To Millions In A Day.

The Best Men Are Not Those Who Have Waited For Chances But Who Have Taken Them; Besieged The Chance; Conquered The Chance; And Made Chance The Servitor.

Why, Man Of Idleness, Labor Has Rocked You In The Cradle, And Nourished Your Pampered Life; Without It, The Woven Silk And The Wool Upon Your Bank Would Be In The Shepherd's Fold. For The Meanest Thing That Ministers To Human Want, Save The Air Of Heaven, Man Is Indebted To Toil; And Even The Air, In God's Wise Ordination, Is Breathed With Labor.

Ostentation Is The Signal Flag Of Hypocrisy.

If You Should Take The Human Heart And Listen To It, It Would Be Like Listening To A Sea-shell; You Would Hear In It The Hollow Murmur Of The Infinite Ocean To Which It Belongs, From Which It Draws Its Profoundest Inspiration, And For Which It Yearns.

The Gospel Has But A Forced Alliance With War. Its Doctrine Of Human Brotherhood Would Ring Strangely Between The Opposed Ranks. The Bellowing Speech Of Cartoon And The Baptism Of Blood Mock Its Liturgies And Sacraments. Its Gentle Beatitudes Would Hardly Serve As Mottoes For Defiant Banners, Nor Its List Of Graces As Names For Ships-of-the-line.

All Evil, In Fact The Very Existence Of Evil, Is Inexplicable Until We Refer To The Paternity Of God. It Hangs A Huge Blot In The Universe Until The Orb Of Divine Love Rises Behind It. In That Apposition We Detect Its Meaning. It Appears To Us But A Finite Shadow As It Passes Across The Disk Of Infinite Light.

If We Would Induce Others To Act Virtuously, It Will Prove More Effectual To Show Them Their Capacities Than To Expose Their Weakness--to Attract Them By A Fairer Ideal Than To Terrify Them By Pictures Of Misery And Shame.

The Universe Is A Vast System Of Exchange. Every Artery Of It Is In Motion, Throbbing With Reciprocity, From The Planet To The Rotting Leaf.

Even Yet Christ Jesus Has To Lie Out In Waste Places Very Often, Because There Is No Room For Him In The Inn--no Room For Him In Our Hearts, Because Of Our Worldliness. There Is No Room For Him Even In Our Politics And Religion. There Is No Room In The Inn, And We Put Him In The Manger, And He Lies Outside Our Faith, Coldly And Dimly Conceived By Us.

The Brightest Crowns That Are Worn In Heaven Have Been Tried, And Smelted, And Polished And Glorified Through The Furnaces Of Tribulation.

There Is No Happiness In Life, There Is No Misery Like That Growing Out Of The Dispositions Which Consecrate Or Desecrate A Home.

The City An Epitome Of The Social World. All The Belts Of Civilization Intersect Along Its Avenues. It Contains The Products Of Every Moral Zone. It Is Cosmopolitan, Not Only In A National, But A Spiritual Sense.

Think For A Moment Of The Great Agents And Engines Of Our Civilization, And Then Think What Shadowy Ideas They All Once Were. The Wheels Of The Steamship Turned As Swiftly As They Do Now, But As Silent And Unsubstantial As The Motions Of The Inventor's Thought; And In The Noiseless Loom Of His Meditation Were Woven The Sinews Of The Printing-press, Whose Thunder Shakes The World.

Let Us Not Fear That The Issues Of Natural Science Shall Be Scepticism Or Anarchy. Through All God's Works There Runs A Beautiful Harmony. The Remotest Truth In His Universe Is Linked To That Which Lies Nearest The Throne.

Revolution Does Not Insure Progress. You May Overturn Thrones, But What Proof That Anything Better Will Grow Upon The Soil?

The Soul, Like The Body, Acquires Vigor By The Exercise Of All Its Faculties. In The Midst Of The World, In Overcoming Difficulties, In Conquering Selfishness, Indolence, And Fear--in All The Occasions Of Duty, It Employs, And Reveals By Employing, Energies That Render It Efficient And Robust--that Broaden Its Scope, Adjust Its Powers, And Mature It With A Rich Experience.

It Is Not Death To Have The Body Called Back To The Earth, And Dissolved Into Its Kindred Elements, And Mouldered To Dust, And, It May Be, Turn To Daisies, In The Grave. But It Is Death To Have The Soul Paralyzed, Its Inner Life Quenched, Its Faculties Dissipated; That Is Death.

Liberty Is An Old Fact; It Has Had Its Heroes And Its Martyrs In Almost Every Age. As I Look Back Through The Vista Of Centuries, I Can See No End Of The Ranks Of Those Who Have Toiled And Suffered In Its Cause, And Who Wear Upon Their Breasts Its Stars Of The Legion Of Honor.

No Language Can Express The Power And Beauty And Heroism Of A Mother's Love.

Is There Anything So Wretched As To Look At A Man Of Fine Abilities Doing Nothing?

Can You Conceive Of Anything That So Represents The Glory, And Truth, And Marvelousness Of God's Nature As The Idea Of Peace?

Always The Idea Of Unbroken Quiet Broods Around The Grave. It Is A Port Where The Storms Of Life Never Beat, And The Forms That Have Been Tossed On Its Chafing Waves Lie Quiet Forevermore. There The Child Nestles As Peacefully As Ever It Lay In Its Mother's Arms, And The Workman's Hands Lie Still By His Side, And The Thinker's Brain Is Pillowed In Silent Mystery, And The Poor Girl's Broken Heart Is Steeped In A Balm That Extracts Its Secret Woe, And Is In The Keeping Of A Charity That Covers All Blame.

Labor, With Its Coarse Raiment And Its Bare Right Arm, Has Gone Forth In The Earth, Achieving The Truest Conquests And Rearing The Most Durable Monuments. It Has Opened The Domain Of Matter And The Empire Of The Mind. The Wild Beast Has Fled Before It, And The Wilderness Has Fallen Back.... Its Triumphal March Is The Progress Of Civilization.

Profaneness Is A Brutal Vice. He Who Indulges In It Is No Gentleman.

The Deepest Life Of Nature Is Silent And Obscure; So Often The Elements That Move And Mould Society Are The Results Of The Sister's Counsel And The Mother's Prayer.

The Wild Bird That Flies So Lone And Far Has Somewhere Its Nest And Brood. A Little Fluttering Heart Of Love Impels Its Wings, And Points Its Course. There Is Nothing So Solitary As A Solitary Man.

In Some Way The Secret Vice Exhales Its Poison; And The Evil Passion, However Cunningly Masked, Stains Through To The Surface.

How Much In This World Is Charged To Chance Or Fortune, Or Veiled Under A More Devout Name, And Accorded To Providence; While, When We Come To Look Honestly Into Affairs, We Find It To Be A Debt Of Our Own Accumulation, And One Which We Must Inevitably Pay.

In The Isolation Of His Clear, Cold Intellect, The Sceptic Abides In A Glacial And Spectral Universe. No Glow From The Affections Lights Up The Frost And Shadow Of The Grave. He Feels No Prophecy In The Thrill Of The Human Heart-in The Incompleteness Of Nature. He Believes Merely In Things Tangible, And Sees Only In The Daytime. He Will Not Confess The Authenticity Of That Paler Light Of Faith Which Was Meant To Shine When The Sunshine Of Reason Falls Short, And The Firmament Of Mystery Is Over Our Heads.

It Is As Bad To Clip Conscience As To Clip Coin; It Is As Bad To Give A Counterfeit Statement As A Counterfeit Bill.

Most Men Are Less Afraid Of Ghosts Than Of Facts.

It Is The Veiled Angel Of Sorrow Who Plucks Away One Thing And Another That Bound Us Here In Ease And Security, And, In The Vanishing Of These Dear Objects, Indicates The True Home Of Our Affections And Our Peace.

A Man's Love For His Native Land Lies Deeper Than Any Logical Expression, Among Those Pulses Of The Heart Which Vibrate To The Sanctities Of Home, And To The Thoughts Which Leap Up From His Father's Graves.

Nature Satisfies My Thirst; It Feeds My Hunger; It Finds Me Clothing; It Affords Me Shelter; It Wraps Me Around When I Sleep With Beneficent And Watchful Care; And It Takes Me At Last To Its Great Bosom, Where My Ashes Mingle With Their Kindred Dust.

A Life Of Mere Pleasure! A Little While, In The Spring-time Of The Senses, In The Sunshine Of Prosperity, In The Jubilee Of Health, It May Seem Well Enough. But How Insufficient, How Mean, How Terrible When Age Comes, And Sorrow, And Death! A Life Of Pleasure! What Does It Look Like When These Great Changes Beat Against It--when The Realities Of Eternity Stream In? It Looks Like The Fragments Of A Feast, When The Sun Shines Upon The Withered Garlands, And The Tinsel, And The Overturned Tables, And The Dead Lees Of Wine.

For Soon, Very Soon Do Men Forget Their Friends Upon Whom Death's Seal Is Set.

The Essence Of Justice Is Mercy. Making A Child Suffer For Wrong-doing Is Merciful To The Child. There Is No Mercy In Letting The Child Have Its Own Will, Plunging Headlong To Destruction With The Bits In Its Mouth. There Is No Mercy To Society Nor To The Criminal If The Wrong Is Not Repressed And The Right Vindicated. We Injure The Culprit Who Comes Up To Take His Proper Doom At The Bar Of Justice, If We Do Not Make Him Feel That He Has Done A Wrong Thing. We May Deliver His Body From The Prison, But Not At The Expense Of Justice Nor To His Own Injury.

Gaiety Is Often The Reckless Ripple Over Depths Of Despair.

Conscience Is Its Own Readiest Accuser.

A Man Can No More Be A Christian Without Facing Evil And Conquering It Than He Can Be A Soldier Without Going To Battle, Facing The Cannon's Mouth, And Encountering The Enemy In The Field.

It Takes Something Of A Poet To Apprehend And Get Into The Depth, The Lusciousness, The Spiritual Life Of A Great Poem. And So We Must Be In Some Way Like God In Order That We May See God As He Is.

Whatever May Be Our Condition In Life, It Is Better To Lay Hold Of Its Advantages Than To Count Its Evils.

If One's Conscience Be Dead As A Stone, It Is As Heavy Too.

There Is Such A Thing As Honest Pride And Self-respect.

Earth Has Scarcely An Acre That Does Not Remind Us Of Actions That Have Long Preceded Our Own, And Its Clustering Tombstones Loom Up Like Reefs Of The Eternal Shore, To Show Us Where So Many Human Barks Have Struck And Gone Down.

We Only Attain The True Idea Of Marriage When We Consider It As A Spiritual Union--a Union Of Immortal Affections, Of Undying Faculties, Of An Imperishable Destiny.

Truth Is The Root, But Human Sympathy Is The Flower Of Practical Life.

Not In Achievement, But In Endurance, Of The Human Soul, Does It Show Its Divine Grandeur And Its Alliance With The Infinite.

Our Life Is What We Make It. An Insignificant Game Or A Noble Trial; A Dream Or A Reality; A Play Of The Senses Worn Out In Selfish Use, And Flying "swifter Than A Weaver's Shuttle," Or An Ascension Of The Soul, By Daily Duties And Unfaltering Faith, To More Spiritual Relations And To Loftier Toils.

Whatever Touches The Nerves Of Motive, Whatever Shifts Man's Moral Position, Is Mightier Than Steam, Or Calorie, Or Lightening.

We Do Not Compromise Our Own Faith By Admitting The Honesty Of Another's Doubt.

Profaneness Is A Brutal Vice. He Who Indulges In It Is No Gentleman, I Care Not What His Stamp May Be In Society; I Care Not What Clothes He Wears, Or What Culture He Boasts.

Home Is The Seminary Of All Other Institutions.

The Golden Age Is Not In The Past, But In The Future; Not In The Origin Of Human Experience, But In Its Consummate Flower; Not Opening In Eden, But Out From Gethsemane.

In The History Of Man It Has Been Very Generally The Case That When Evils Have Grown Insufferable They Have Touched The Point Of Cure.

Pure Felicity Is Reserved For The Heavenly Life; It Grows Not In An Earthly Soil.

Down Below All The Crust Of Human Conceptions, Of Human Ideas, Christ Sank An Artesian Well Into A Source Of Happiness So Pure And Blessed That Even Yet The World Does Not Believe In It.

Let Every Man Be Free To Act From His Own Conscience; But Let Him Remember That Other People Have Consciences Too; And Let Not His Liberty Be So Expansive That In Its Indulgence It Jars And Crashes Against The Liberty Of Others.

Truth Is Poetry; It Is The Grandest Poetry.

Influence Is Exerted By Every Human Being From The Hour Of Birth To That Of Death.

A True Man Never Frets About His Place In The World, But Just Slides Into It By The Gravitation Of His Nature, And Swings There As Easily As A Star.

A Small Lie, If It Actually Is A Lie, Condemns A Man As Much As A Big And Black Falsehood. If A Man Will Deliberately Cheat To The Amount Of A Single Cent, Give Him Opportunity And He Would Cheat To Any Amount.

At The Bottom Of Not A Little Of The Bravery That Appears In The World, There Lurks A Miserable Cowardice. Men Will Face Powder And Steel Because They Have Not The Courage To Face Public Opinion.

Life Itself Suggests A Higher Good Than Life Itself Can Yield.

A Life Is Black, Whiten It As You Will.

Do Not Judge Men By Mere Appearances; For The Light Laughter That Bubbles On The Lip Often Mantles Over The Depths Of Sadness, And The Serious Look May Be The Sober Veil That Covers A Divine Peace And Joy.

The Universe Is A Vast System Of Exchange. Every Artery Of It Is In Motion, Throbbing With Reciprocity, From The Planet To The Rotting Leaf. The Vapor Climbs The Sunbeam, And Comes Back In Blessings Upon The Exhausted Herb. The Exhalation Of The Plant Is Wafted To The Ocean. And So Goes On The Beautiful Commerce Of Nature. And All Because Of Dissimilarity--because No One Thing Is Sufficient In Itself, But Calls For The Assistance Of Something Else, And Repays By A Contribution In Turn.

No One Can Truly See Christ, And Drink In The Influence Of His Character, And Not Be A Christian At Heart.

It Is Because We Underrate Thought, Because We Do Not See What A Great Element It Is In Religious Life, That There Is So Little Of Practical And Consistent Religion Among Us.

Life Is A Problem. Not Merely A Premiss From Which We Start, But A Goal Towards Which We Proceed. It Is An Opportunity For Us Not Merely To Get, But To Attain; Not Simply To Have, But To Be. Its Standard Of Failure Or Success Is Not Outward Fortune, But Inward Possession.

Do Not Judge From Mere Appearances.

The Essence Of Justice Is Mercy.

Modest Expression Is A Beautiful Setting To The Diamond Of Talent And Genius.

God Is The Explanation Of All Things.

We Move Too Much In Platoons; We March By Sections; We Do Not Live In Our Vital Individuality Enough; We Are Slaves To Fashion, In Mind And In Heart, If Not To Our Passions And Appetites.

An Aged Christian, With The Snow Of Time Upon His Head, May Remind Us That Those Points Of Earth Are Whitest Which Are Nearest To Heaven.

The Mere Leader Of Fashion Has No Genuine Claim To Supremacy; At Least, No Abiding Assurance Of It. He Has Embroidered His Title Upon His Waistcoat, And Carries His Worth In His Watch Chain; And, If He Is Allowed Any Real Precedence For This It Is Almost A Moral Swindle,--a Way Of Obtaining Goods Under False Pretences.

When I Contrast The Loving Jesus, Comprehending All Things In His Ample And Tender Charity, With Those Who Profess To Bear His Name, Marking Their Zeal By What They Do Not Love, It Seems To Me As Though Men, Like The Witches Of Old, Had Read The Bible Backward, And Had Taken Incantations Out Of It For Evil, Rather Than Inspiration For Good.

There Is A Sweet Anguish Springing Up In Our Bosoms When A Child's Face Brightens Under The Shadow Of The Waiting Angel. There Is An Autumnal Fitness When Age Gives Up The Ghost; And When The Saint Dies There Is A Tearful Victory.

The Unmerciful Man Is Most Certainly An Unblessed Man. His Sympathies Are All Dried Up; He Is Afflicted With A Chronic Jaundice, And Lives Timidly And Darkly In A Little, Narrow Rat-hole Of Distrust.

The Sluices Of The Grog-shop Are Fed From The Wine-glasses In The Parlor, And There Is A Lineal Descent From The Gentleman Who Hiccoughs At His Elegant Dinner-table To The Sot Who Makes A Bed Of The Gutter.

In The Matter Of Faith, We Have The Added Weight Of Hope To That Of Reason In The Convictions Which We Sustain Relating To A Future State.

Temptation Cannot Exist Without The Concurrence Of Inclination And Opportunity.

The Minister Should Preach As If He Felt That Although The Congregation Own The Church, And Have Bought The Pews, They Have Not Bought Him. His Soul Is Worth No More Than Any Other Man's, But It Is All He Has, And He Cannot Be Expected To Sell It For A Salary. The Terms Are By No Means Equal. If A Parishioner Does Not Like The Preaching, He Can Go Elsewhere And Get Another Pew, But The Preacher Cannot Get Another Soul.

It Is Exceedingly Deleterious To Withdraw The Sanction Of Religion From Amusement. If We Feel That It Is All Injurious We Should Strip The Earth Of Its Flowers And Blot Out Its Pleasant Sunshine.

O, How Much Those Men Are To Be Valued Who, In The Spirit With Which The Widow Gave Up Her Two Mites, Have Given Up Themselves! How Their Names Sparkle! How Rich Their Very Ashes Are! How They Will Count Up In Heaven!

Morality Is But The Vestibule Of Religion.

Christianity Has Made Martyrdom Sublime, And Sorrow Triumphant.

Poetry Is The Utterance Of Deep And Heart-felt Truth - The True Poet Is Very Near The Oracle.

The Individual And The Race Are Always Moving, And As We Drift Into New Latitudes New Lights Open In The Heaven More Immediately Over Us.

Death Makes A Beautiful Appeal To Charity. When We Look Upon The Dead Form, So Composed And Still, The Kindness And The Love That Are In Us All Come Forth.

No More Duty Can Be Urged Upon Those Who Are Entering The Great Theater Of Life Than Simple Loyalty To Their Best Convictions.

God's Beneficence Streams Out From The Morning Sun, And His Love Looks Down Upon Us From The Starry Eyes Of Midnight. It Is His Solicitude That Wraps Us In The Air, And The Pressure Of His Hand, So To Speak, That Keeps Our Pulses Beating. O! It Is A Great Thing To Realize That The Divine Power Is Always Working; That Nature, In Every Valve And Every Artery, Is Full Of The Presence Of God.

There Is No Doubt Of The Essential Nobility Of That Man Who Pours Into Life The Honest Vigor Of His Toil, Over Those Who Compose The Feathery Foam Of Fashion That Sweeps Along Broadway; Who Consider The Insignia Of Honor To Consist In Wealth And Indolence; And Who, Ignoring The Family History, Paint Coats Of Arms To Cover Up The Leather Aprons Of Their Grandfathers.

Swift Calls Discretion Low Prudence; It Is High Prudence, And One Of The Most Important Elements Entering Into Either Social Or Political Life.

Humility Is Not A Weak And Timid Quality; It Must Be Carefully Distinguished From A Groveling Spirit.

The Creed Of A True Saint Is To Make The Best Of Life, And To Make The Most Of It.

There Is But A Slight Difference Between The Man Who May Be Said To Know Nothing And Him Who Thinks He Knows Everything.

Through Every Rift Of Discovery Some Seeming Anomaly Drops Out Of The Darkness, And Falls, As A Golden Link Into The Great Chain Of Order.

Death Is The Condition Of Higher And More Fruitful Life.

I Know A Good Many People, I Think, Who Are Bigots, And Who Know They Are Bigots, And Are Sorry For It, But They Dare Not Be Anything Else.

The Way To Overcome Evil Is To Love Something That Is Good.

In This World The Inclination To Do Things Is Of More Importance Than The Mere Power.

Mercy Among The Virtues Is Like The Moon Among The Stars ... It Is The Light That Hovers Above The Judgment Seat.

Character Has More Effect Than Anything Else. Let A Number Of Loud-talking Men Take Up A Particular Question, And One Man Of Character, Of Known Integrity And Beauty Of Soul, Will Outweigh Them All In His Influence.

Home Is The Seminary Of All Other Institutions. There Are The Roots Of All Public Prosperity, The Foundations Of The State, The Germs Of The Church. There Is All That In The Child Makes The Future Man; All That In The Man Makes The Good Citizen.

This Is The Essential Evil Of Vice: It Debases A Man.

It Is A Mistake To Consider Marriage Merely As A Scheme Of Happiness. It Is Also A Bond Of Service. It Is The Most Ancient Form Of That Social Ministration Which God Has Ordained For All Human Beings, And Which Is Symbolized By All The Relations Of Nature.

A Thousand Wheels Of Labor Are Turned By Dear Affections, And Kept In Motion By Self-sacrificing Endurance; And The Crowds That Pour Forth In The Morning And Return At Night Are Daily Procession Of Love And Duty.

The Night Comes For The Purpose Of Checking Our Busy Employment, And Introducing An Interval Of Repose Between The Links Of Our Action And Our Aspiration. It Draws Its Dim Curtain Around The Field Of Toil. It Buries The Objects Of Our Handiwork In Darkness, And Involves Them With Uncertainty. It Comes To The Relief Of The Exhausted Body And The Tired Brain. Our Powers, Harmonizing With The Diurnal Revolutions Of The Earth, Fail With The Failing Light, And A Merciful Providence Casts Around Us This Mantle Of Shadow, And Snatches Us From Our Occupation.

The Bosom Can Ache Beneath Diamond Brooches; And Many A Blithe Heart Dances Under Coarse Wool.

There Are Daily Martyrdoms Occurring Of More Or Less Self-abnegation, And Of Which The World Knows Nothing.

Consider And Act With Reference To The True Ends Of Existence. This World Is But The Vestibule Of An Immortal Life. Every Action Of Our Lives Touches On Some Chord That Will Vibrate In Eternity.

Impatience Dries The Blood Sooner Than Age Or Sorrow.

The True Church Is Not An Institution To Be Kept Apart From The World Because The World "is Common And Unclean," But A Vital Heart Of Truth And Love, Beating With The Life Of Jesus, And Sending Abroad Its Sanctifying Pulsations Until Nothing Shall Be Common And Unclean.

The Excellence And Inspiration Of Truth Is In The Pursuit, Not In The Mere Having Of It. The Pursuit Of All Truth Is A Kind Of Gymnastics; A Man Swings From One Truth With Higher Strength To Gain Another. The Continual Glory Is The Possibility Opening Before Us.

It Is Not Enjoined Upon Us To Forget, But We Are Told To Forgive, Our Enemies.

Setting Is Preliminary To Brighter Rising; Decay Is A Process Of Advancement; Death Is The Condition Of Higher And More Fruitful Life.

Objects Close To The Eye Shut Out Much Larger Objects On The Horizon; And Splendors Born Only Of The Earth Eclipse The Stars. So A Man Sometimes Covers Up The Entire Disk Of Eternity With A Dollar, And Quenches Transcendent Glories With A Little Shining Dust.

Books! The Chosen Depositories Of The Thoughts, The Opinions, And The Aspirations Of Mighty Intellects; Like Wondrous Mirrors That Have Caught And Fixed Bright Images Of Souls That Have Passed Away; Like Magic Lyres, Whose Masters Have Bequeathed Them To The World, And Which Yet, Of Themselves, Ring With Unforgotten Music, While The Hands That Touched Their Chords Have Crumbled Into Dust. Books! They Are The Embodiments And Manifestations Of Departed Minds--the Living Organs Through Which Those Who Are Dead Yet Speak To Us.

Some People Habitually Wear Sadness, Like A Garment, And Think It A Becoming Grace. God Loves A Cheerful Worshipper.

The Angels May Have Wider Spheres Of Action, May Have Nobler Forms Of Duty; But Right With Them And With Us Is One And The Same Thing.

We May Learn By Practice Such Things Upon Earth As Shall Be Of Use To Us In Heaven. Piety, Unostentatious Piety, Is Never Out Of Place.

Christ Saw Much In This World To Weep Over, And Much To Pray Over: But He Saw Nothing In It To Look Upon With Contempt.

Those Old Ages Are Like The Landscape That Shows Best In Purple Distance, All Verdant And Smooth, And Bathed In Mellow Light.

Life Is A Crucible. We Are Thrown Into It And Tried.

Trending Author

Pierre De Coubertin

Category