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The Time Is Ripe, And Rotten-ripe, For Change; Then Let It Come: I Have No Dread Of What Is Called For By The Instinct Of Mankind. Nor Think I That God's World Would Fall Apart Because We Tear A Parchment More Or Less. Truth Is Eternal, But Her Effluence, With Endless Change, Is Fitted To The Hour; Her Mirror Is Turned Forward, To Reflect The Promise Of The Future, Not The Past. I Do Not Fear To Follow Out The Truth.

-James Russell Lowell

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The Time Is Ripe,

James Russell Lowell

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The Time Is Ripe, And Rotten-ripe, For Change; Then Let It Come: I Have No Dread Of What Is Called For By The Instinct Of Mankind. Nor Think I That God's World Would Fall Apart Because We Tear A Parchment More Or Less. Truth Is Eternal, But Her Effluence, With Endless Change, Is Fitted To The Hour; Her Mirror Is Turned Forward, To Reflect The Promise Of The Future, Not The Past. I Do Not Fear To Follow Out The Truth.

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They Enslave Their Children's Children Who Make Compromise With Sin.

The New World's Sons From England's Breast We Drew Such Milk As Bids Remember Whence We Came, Proud Of Her Past Wherefrom Our Future Grew, This Window We Inscribe With Raleigh's Fame.

He Who Keeps His Faith Only, Cannot Be Discrowned.

What Means This Glory Round Our Feet, The Magi Mused, "more Bright Than Morn!" And Voices Chanted Clear And Sweet, "to-day The Prince Of Peace Is Born.

Large Charity Doth Never Soil, But Only Whitens Soft White Hands.

The Nurse Of Full-grown Souls Is Solitude.

Some Kind Of Pace May Be Got Out Of The Eeriest Jade By The Near Prospect Of Oats; But The Thoroughbred Has The Spur In His Blood.

Evil Springs Up, And Flowers, And Bears No Seed, And Feeds The Green Earth With Its Swift Decay, Leaving It Richer For The Growth Of Truth.

A Wise Skepticism Is The First Attribute Of A Good Critic.

The Traitor To Humanity Is The Traitor Most Accursed; Man Is More Than Constitutions; Better Rot Beneath The Sod, Than Be True To Church And State While We Are Doubly False To God.

All The Beautiful Sentiments In The World Weigh Less Than A Single Lovely Action.

Life Seems A Jest Of Fate's Contriving.

The Foolish And The Dead Alone Never Change Their Opinions.

It May Be Conjectured That It Is Cheaper In The Long Run To Lift Men Up Than To Hold Them Down, And That The Ballot In Their Hands Is Less Dangerous To Society Than A Sense Of Wrong Is In Their Heads.

For There's Nothing We Read Of In Torture's Inventions, Like A Well-meaning Dunce, With The Best Of Intentions.

The Path Of Nature Is, Indeed, A Narrow One, And It Is Only The Immortals That Seek It, And, When They Find It, Do Not Find Themselves Cramped Therein.

God Is The Only Being Who Has Time Enough; But A Prudent Man, Who Knows How To Seize Occasion, Can Commonly Make A Shift To Find As Much As He Needs.

Faith In God, Faith In Man, Faith In Work: This Is The Short Formula In Which We May Sum Up The Teachings Of The Founders Of New England,--a Creed Ample Enough For This Life And The Next.

That Pernicious Sentiment, "our Country, Right Or Wrong."

The Soil Out Of Which Such Men As He Are Made Is Good To Be Born On, Good To Live On, Good To Die For And To Be Buried In.

Fate Loves Best Such Syllables As Are Sweet And Sonorous On The Tongue.

The Purely Great Whose Soul No Siren Passion Could Unsphere, Thou Nameless, Now A Power And Mixed With Fate.

Where One Person Shapes Their Life By Precept And Example, There Are A Thousand Who Have Shaped It By Impulse And Circumstances.

Not Failure, But Low Aim, Is Crime.

Not What We Give, But What We Share, For The Gift Without The Giver Is Bare.

There Are Two Kinds Of Weakness, That Which Breaks And That Which Bends.

It Is Only By Instigation Of The Wrongs Of Men That What Are Called The Rights Of Man Become Turbulent And Dangerous.

Time Is, After All, The Greatest Of Poets; And The Sons Of Memory Stand A Better Chance Of Being The Heirs Of Fame.

A Friendship Counting Nearly Forty Years Is The Finest Kind Of Shade-tree I Know.

It Is Curious How Tyrannical The Habit Of Reading Is...

All Thoughtful Men Are Solitary And Original In Themselves.

What A Sense Of Security In An Old Book Which Time Has Criticized For Us!

It Is Not The Insurrections Of Ignorance That Are Dangerous, But The Revolts Of The Intelligence.

The Opening Of The First Grammar School Was The Opening Of The First Trench Against Monopoly In Church And State.

A Woman's Love Is Mighty, But A Mother's Heart Is Weak, And By Its Weakness Overcomes.

There Is Surely Room For Yet Another Schoolmaster When A Score Of Seers Advertise Themselves In Boston Newspapers.

May Is A Pious Fraud Of The Almanac A Ghastly Parody Of Real Spring Shaped Out Of Snow And Breathed With Eastern Wind.

In Vain We Call Old Notions Fudge, And Bend Our Conscience To Our Dealing; The Ten Commandments Will Not Budge, And Stealing Will Continue Stealing.

Truly There Is A Tide In The Affairs Of Men; But There Is No Gulf-stream Setting Forever In One Direction.

Democracy Gives Every Man The Right To Be His Own Oppressor.

Democracies Have

Such Power There Is In Clear-eyed Self-restraint.

I Tell Ye Wut, My Judgment Is You're Pooty Sure To Fail, Ez Long 'z The Head Keeps Turnin' Back For Counsel To The The Tail.

One Thorn Of Experience Is Worth A Whole Wilderness Of Warning.

Some Day The Soft Ideal That We Wooed Confronts Us Fiercely, Foe-beset, Pursued, And Cries Reproachful: Was It Then My Praise, And Not Myself Was Loved? Prove Now Thy Truth; I Claim Of Thee The Promise Of Thy Youth.

All God's Angels Come To Us Disguised.

Tis As Easy To Be Heroes As To Sit The Idle Slaves.

The Right Of Individual Property Is No Doubt The Very Corner-stone Of Civilization, As Hitherto Understood; But I Am A Little Impatient Of Being Told That Property Is Entitled To Exceptional Consideration Because It Bears All The Burdens Of The State. It Bears Those, Indeed, Which Can Be Most Easily Borne, But Poverty Pays With Its Person The Chief Expenses Of War, Pestilence, And Famine.

God's Livery Is A Very Plain One; But Its Wearers Have Good Reason To Be Content. If It Have Not So Much Gold-lace About It As Satan's, It Keeps Out Foul Weather Better, And Is Besides A Great Deal Cheaper.

If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Fools, When Their Roof-tree Falls, Think It Doomsday.

It Is Right Precious To Behold The First Long Surf Of Climbing Light Flood All The Thirsty East With Gold.

A Profound Common Sense Is The Best Genius For Statesmanship.

Metaphor Is No Argument, Though It Be Sometimes The Gunpowder To Drive One Home, And Imbed It In The Memory.

The Right To Be A Cussed Fool Is Safe From All Devices Human, It's Common (ez A Gin'i Rule) To Every Critter Born Of Woman.

For Only By Unlearning Wisdom Comes.

Over All Life Broods Poesy, Like The Calm Blue Sky With Its Motherly, Rebuking Face. She Is The Great Reformer, And Where The Love Of Her Is Strong And Healthy, Wickedness And Wrong Cannot Long Prevail.

Fanaticism, Or, To Call It By Its Milder Name, Enthusiasm, Is Only Powerful And Active So Long As It Is Aggressive. Establish It Firmly In Power, And It Becomes Conservatism, Whether It Will Or No.

Violet! Sweet Violet! Thine Eyes Are Full Of Tears; Are They Wet Even Yet With The Thought Of Other Years?

All Share In The Government Of The World Was Denied For Centuries To Perhaps The Ablest, Certainly The Most Tenacious Race That Had Ever Lived In It

Who's Not Sat Tense Before His Own Heart's Curtain.

Whom The Heart Of Man Shuts Out, Sometimes The Heart Of God Takes In, And Fences Them All Round About With Silence Mid The Worlds Loud Din.

The Question Of Common Sense Is Always: 'what Is It Good For?' - A Question Which Would Abolish The Rose And Be Answered Triumphantly By The Cabbage.

To Win The Secret Of A Weed's Plain Heart.

The True Historical Genius, To Our Thinking, Is That Which Can See The Nobler Meaning Of Events That Are Near Him, As The True Poet Is He Who Detects The Divine In The Casual; And We Somewhat Suspect The Depth Of His Insight Into The Past Who Cannot Recognize The Godlike Of To-day Under That Disguise In Which It Always Visits Us.

Earth's Biggest Country 's Gut Her Soul, An' Risen Up Earth's Greatest Nation.

A Nature Wise With Finding In Itself The Types Of All, With Watching From The Dim Verge Of The Time What Things To Be Are Visible In The Gleams Thrown Forward On Them From The Luminous Past, Wise With The History Of Its Own Frail Heart, With Reverence And Sorrow, And With Love, Broad As The World, For Freedom And For Man.

May Is A Pious Fraud Of The Almanac.

The Better Part Of Every Man's Education Is That Which He Gives Himself.

Earth Gets Its Price For What Earth Gives Us.

To Educate The Intelligence Is To Expand The Horizon Of Its Wants And Desires.

[b]ut In Literature, It Should Be Remembered, A Thing Always Becomes His At Last Who Says It Best, And Thus Makes It His Own.

God Does Not Weigh Criminality In Our Scales. We Have One Absolute, With The Seal Of Authority Upon It; And With Us An Ounce Is An Ounce, And A Pound A Pound. God's Measure Is The Heart Of The Offender,--a Balance Which Varies With Every One Of Us, A Balance So Delicate That A Tear Cast In The Other Side May Make The Weight Of Error Kick The Beam.

Truth Forever On The Scaffold, Wrong Forever On The Throne.

Nature, They Say, Doth Dote, And Cannot Make A Man Save On Some Worn-out Plan Repeating Us By Rote: For Him Her Old World Moulds Aside She Threw And, Choosing Sweet Clay From The Breast Of The Unexhausted West, With Stuff Untainted Shaped A Hero New.

In The Ocean Of Baseness, The Deeper We Get, The Easier The Sinking.

Nature Fits All Her Children With Something To Do, He Who Would Write And Can't Write, Can Surely Review.

Once To Every Man And Nation, Comes The Moment To Decide, In The Strife Of Truth With Falsehood, For The Good Or Evil Side; Some Great Cause, Some Great Decision, Offering Each The Bloom Or Blight, And The Choice Goes By Forever, ’twixt That Darkness And That Light.

Things Always Seem Fairer When We Look Back At Them, And It Is Out Of That Inaccessible Tower Of The Past That Longing Leans And Beckons.

We Cannot But Think There Is Something Like A Fallacy In Mr. Buckle's Theory That The Advance Of Mankind Is Necessarily In The Direction Of Science, And Not In That Of Morals.

Year By Year, More And More Of The World Gets Disenchanted. Even The Icy Privacy Of The Arctic And Antarctic Circles Is Invaded. We Have Played Jack Horner With Our Earth, Till There Is Never A Plum Left In It.

Now On The Hills I Hear The Thunder Mutter... Nearer And Nearer Rolls The Thunder-clap, - You Can Hear The Quick Heart Of The Tempest Beat.... Look! Look! That Livid Flash! And Instantly Follows The Rattling Thunder, As If Some Cloud-crag, Split Asunder, Fell, Splintering With A Ruinous Crash, On The Earth, Which Crouches In Silence Under; And Now A Solid Gray Wall Of Rain Shuts Off The Landscape, Mile By Mile.

He Who Esteems The Virginia Reel A Bait To Draw Saints From Their Spiritual Weal, And Regards The Quadrille As A Far Greater Knavery Than Crushing His African Children With Slavery, Since All Who Take Part In A Waltz Or Cotillon Are Mounted For Hell On The Devil's Own Pillion, Who, As Every True Orthodox Christian Well Knows, Approaches The Heart Through The Door Of The Toes.

Better One Bite At Forty, Of Truths Bitter Rind, Than The Hot Wine That Gushed From The Vintage Of Twenty.

Take Winter As You Find Him, And He Turns Out To Be A Thoroughly Honest Fellow; With No Nonsense In Him, Which Is A Great Comfort In The Long-run.

And What Is So Rare As A Day In June? Then, If Ever, Come Perfect Days; Then Heaven Tries Earth If It Be In Tune, And Over It Softly Her Warm Ear Lays; Whether We Look, Or Whether We Listen, We Hear Life Murmur, Or See It Glisten.

The Flowers Or Weeds That Spring Up Tomorrow Are In The Seeds We Sow Today. The Foolish And The Dead Alone Never Change Their Opinions.

Ah, In This World, Where Every Guiding Thread Ends Suddenly In The One Sure Centre, Death, The Visionary Hand Of Might-have-been Alone Can Fill Desire's Cup To The Brim!

Did Man E'er Live Saw Priest Or Woman Yet Forgive?

Let Us Be Thankful That There Is No Court By Which We Can Be Excluded From Our Share In The Inheritance Of The Great Poets Of All Ages And Countries, To Which Our Simple Humanity Entitles Us.

With Every Anguish Of Our Earthly Part The Spirit's Sight Grows Clearer.

'tis Sorrow Builds The Shining Ladder Up, Whose Golden Rounds Are Our Calamities, Whereon Our Firm Feet Planting, Nearer God The Spirit Climbs, And Hath Its Eyes Unsealed. True It Is That Death's Face Seems Stern And Cold When He Is Sent To Summon Those We Love; But All God's Angels Come To Us Disguised; Sorrow And Sickness, Poverty And Death, One After Another, Lift Their Frowning Masks, And We Behold The Seraph's Face Beneath, All Radiant With The Glory And The Calm Of Having Looked Upon The Front Of God.

Two Meanings Have Our Lightest Fantasies,- One Of The Flesh, And Of The Spirit One.

Democracy Is That Form Of Society, No Matter What Its Political Classification, In Which Every Man Has A Chance And Knows That He Has It.

It Is By Presence Of Mind In Untried Emergencies That The Native Metal Of Man Is Tested.

Presence Of Mind

At The Devil's Booth Are All Things Sold. Each Ounce Of Dross Costs Its Ounce Of Gold.

New Occasions Teach New Duties, Time Makes Ancient Good Uncouth; They Must Upward Still And Onward, Who Would Keep Abreast Of Truth.

Onward And Upward

There Is No Better Ballast For Keeping The Mind Steady On Its Keel, And Saving It From All Risk Of Crankiness, Than Business.

To Me It Seems Not Unreasonable To Find A Re-enforcement Of Optimism, A Renewal Of Courage And Hope, In The Modern Theory That Man Has Mounted To What He Is From The Lowest Step Of Potentiality, Through Toilsome Grades Of Ever-expanding Existence, Even Thought It Have Been By A Spiral Stairway, Mainly Dark Or Dusty, With Loop-holes At Long Intervals Only, And These Granting But A Narrow And One-sided View.

Reading Enables Us To See With The Keenest Eyes, To Hear With The Finest Ears, And Listen To The Sweetest Voices Of All Time.

The Sentimentalist Does Not Think Of What He Does So Much As Of What The World Will Think Of What He Does.

It Is The Rooted Instinct In Men To Admire What Is Better And More Beautiful Than Themselves.

What A Man Pays For Bread And Butter Is Worth Its Market Value, And No More. What He Pays For Love's Sake Is Gold Indeed, Which Has A Lure For Angels' Eyes, And Rings Well Upon God's Touchstone.

The Stiff Rails Were Softened To Swan's-down, And Still Fluttered Down The Snow.

Solitude Is As Needful To The Imagination As Society Is Wholesome For The Character.

The Gift Without The Giver Is Rare.

The Holy Supper Is Kept, Indeed, In Whatso We Share With Anothers Need; Not What We Give, But What We Share, For The Gift Without The Giver Is Bare; Who Gives Himself With His Alms Feeds Three, Himself, His Hungering Neighbor, And Me.

A Father Of The Church Said That Property Was Theft, Many Centuries Before Proudhon Was Born. Bourdaloue Reaffirmed It. Montesquieu Was The Inventor Of National Workshops And Of The Theory That The State Owed Every Man A Living. Nay, Was Not The Church Herself The First Organized Democracy?

Worshippers Of Light Ancestral Make The Present Light A Crime.

Never Did Poesy Appear So Full Of Heaven To Me, As When I Saw How It Would Pierce Through Pride And Fear To The Lives Of Coarsest Men.

Most Religion-mongers Have Bated Their Paradises With A Bit Of Toasted Cheese. They Have Tempted The Body With Large Promises Of Possessions In Their Transmortal El Dorado. Sancho Panza Will Not Quit His Chimney-corner, But Under Promise Of Imaginary Islands To Govern.

That Love For One, From Which There Doth Not Spring Wide Love For All, Is But A Worthless Thing.

The Pressure Of Public Opinion Is Like The Pressure Of The Atmosphere; You Can't See It - But All The Same, It Is Sixteen Pounds To The Square Inch.

It Seems To Me That The Bane Of Our Country Is A Profession Of Faith Either With No Basis Of Real Belief, Or With No Proper Examination Of The Grounds On Which The Creed Is Supposed To Rest.

And Blessed Are The Horny Hands Of Toil.

One Day With Life And Heart Is More Than Time Enough To Find A World.

For Humanity Sweeps Onward: Where Today The Martyr Stands, On The Morrow Crouches Judas With The Silver In His Hands; Far In Front The Cross Stands Ready And The Crackling Fagots Burn, While The Hooting Mob Of Yesterday In Silent Awe Return To Glean Up The Scattered Ashes Into History's Golden Urn.

Puritanism, Believing Itself Quick With The Seed Of Religious Liberty, Laid, Without Knowing It, The Egg Of Democracy.

The Pale And Quiet Moon Makes Her Calm Forehead Bare, And The Last Fragments Of The Storm, Like Shattered Rigging From A Fight At Sea, Silent And Few, Are Drifting Over Me.

The Intellect Has Only One Failing, Which, To Be Sure, Is A Very Considerable One. It Has No Conscience.

I Who Still Pray At Morning And At Eve Thrice In My Life Perhaps Have Truly Prayed, Thrice Stirred Below Conscious Self Have Felt That Perfect Disenthrallment Which Is God.

Comparative Criticism Teaches Us That Moral And Aesthetic Defects Are More Nearly Related Than Is Commonly Supposed.

They Talk About Their Pilgrim Blood, Their Birthright High And Holy! A Mountain-stream That Ends In Mud Thinks Is Melancholy.

Not But Wut Abstract War Is Horrid, I Sign To Thet With All My Heart, But Civilysation Doos Git Forrid Sometimes, Upon A Powder-cart.

A Stray Hair, By Its Continued Irritation, May Give More Annoyance Than A Smart Blow.

The Story Of Any One Man's Real Experience Finds Its Startling Parallel In That Of Every One Of Us.

Life Is A Sheet Of Paper White / Whereon Each One Of Us May Write / His Word Or Two, And Then Comes Night.

How I Do Love The Earth. I Feel It Thrill Under My Feet. I Feel Somehow As If It Were Conscious Of My Love, As If Something Passed Into My Dancing Blood From It.

It Is Mediocrity Which Makes Laws And Sets Mantraps And Spring-guns In The Realm Of Free Song, Saying Thus Far Shalt Thou Go And No Further.

Truth Always Has A Bewitching Savor Of Newness In It, And Novelty At The First Taste Recalls That Original Sweetness To The Tongue; But Alas For Him Who Would Make The One A Substitute For The Other.

This Imputation Of Inconsistency Is One To Which Every Sound Politician And Every Honest Thinker Must Sooner Or Later Subject Himself. The Foolish And The Dead Alone Never Change Their Opinion.

Not A Deed Would He Do, Not A Word Would He Utter, Till He's Weighed Its Relation To Plain Bread And Butter.

Reputation Is Only A Candle, Of Wavering And Uncertain Flame, And Easily Blown Out, But It Is The Light By Which The World Looks For And Finds Merit.

Keats Longed For Fame, But Longed Above All To Deserve It.

Now The Heart Is So Full That A Drop Overfills It, We Are Happy Now Because God So Wills It; No Matter How Barren The Past May Have Been, 't Is Enough For Us Now That The Leaves Are Green; We Sit In The Warm Shade And Feel Right Well How The Sap Creeps Up And The Blossoms Swell... The Breeze Comes Whispering In Our Ear, That Dandelions Are Blossoming Near... Every Thing Is Upward Striving; 't Is As Easy Now For The Heart To Be True As For Grass To Be Green Or Skies To Be Blue, - 't Is The Natural Way Of Living.

Literature, Properly So Called, Draws Its Sap From The Deep Soil Of Human Nature's Common And Everlasting Sympathies, The Gathered Leaf-mound Of Countless Generations, And Not From Any Top Dressing Capriciously Scattered Over The Surface.

Talent Is That Which Is In A Man's Power; Genius Is That In Whose Power A Man Is.

As Life Runs On, The Road Grows Strange With Faces New - And Near The End. The Milestones Into Headstones Change, Neath Every One A Friend.

What Visionary Tints The Year Puts On, When Falling Leaves Falter Through Motionless Air Or Numbly Cling And Shiver To Be Gone! How Shimmer The Low Flats And Pastures Bare, As With Her Nectar Hebe Autumn Fills The Bowl Between Me And Those Distant Hills, And Smiles And Shakes Abroad Her Misty, Tremulous Hair!

Fate Loves The Fearless.

Tyranny Is Always Weakness

Moral Supremacy Is The Only One That Leaves Monuments, And Not Ruins, Behind It.

He Mastered Whatever Was Not Worth The Knowing.

Democracy Is Nothing More Than An Experiment In Government, More Likely To Succeed In A New Soil, But Likely To Be Tried In All Soils, Which Must Stand Or Fall On Its Own Merits As Others Have Done Before It. For There Is No Trick Of Perpetual Motion In Politics Any More Than In Mechanics.

The Ash Her Purple Drops Forgivingly And Sadly, Breaking Not The General Hush; The Maple Swamps Glow Like A Sunset Sea, Each Leaf A Ripple With Its Separate Flush; All Round The Wood's Edge Creeps The Skirting Blaze, Ere The Rain Falls, The Cautious Farmer Burns His Brush.

Many-sidedness Of Culture Makes Our Vision Clearer And Keener In Particulars.

The Heart Forgets Its Sorrow And Ache.

Incredulity Robs Us Of Many Pleasures, And Gives Us Nothing In Return.

Life Is The Jailer, Death The Angel Sent To Draw The Unwilling Bolts And Set Us Free.

Hush! Still As Death, The Tempest Holds His Breath As From A Sudden Will; The Rain Stops Short, But From The Eaves You See It Drop, And Hear It From The Leaves, All Is So Bodingly Still.

In The Storm, Like A Prophet O'ermaddened, Thou Singest And Tossest Thy Branches; Thy Heart With The Terror Is Gladdened, Thou Forebodest The Dread Avalanches.... In The Calm Thou O'erstretchest The Valleys With Thine Arms, As If Blessings Imploring, Like An Old King Led Forth From His Palace, When His People To Battle Are Pouring.

Praise Follows Truth Afar Off, And Only Overtakes Her At The Grave; Plausibility Clings To Her Skirts And Holds Her Back Till Then

Love Lives On, And Hath A Power To Bless When They Who Loved Are Hidden In The Grave.

The Pine Is The Mother Of Legends.

And But Two Ways Are Offered To Our Will, Toil With Rare Triumph, Ease With Safe Disgrace, The Problem Still For Us And All Of Human Race.

Slow Are The Steps Of Freedom, But Her Feet Turn Never Backward.

Thank God Every Morning When You Get Up That You Have Something To Do That Day, Which Must Be Done, Whether You Like It Or Not.

I Don't Believe In Principle, But I Do In Interest.

A Wise Man Travels To Discover Himself.

Fortune Is The Rod Of The Weak, And The Staff Of The Brave.

The Discontent With The Existing Order Of Things Pervaded The Atmosphere, Wherever The Conditions Were Favorable, Long Before Columbus, Seeking The Back Door Of Asia, Found Himself Knocking At The Front Door Of America.

The Eye Is The Notebook Of The Poet.

Each Day The World Is Born Anew For Him Who Takes It Rightly.

New Occasions Teach New Duties.

Onward And Upward

Once To Every Man And Nation Comes The Moment To Decide.

Knowing Who You Are

Most Men Make The Voyage Of Life As If They Carried Sealed Orders Which They Were Not To Open Till They Were Fairly In Mid-ocean.

It Is Curious For One Who Studies The Action And Reaction Of National Literature On Each Other, To See The Humor Of Swift And Sterne And Fielding, After Filtering Through Richter, Reappear In Carlyle With A Tinge Of Germanism That Makes It Novel, Alien, Or Even Displeasing, As The Case May Be, To The English Mind.

Attention Is The Stuff That Memory Is Made Of, And Memory Is Accumulated Genius.

The Only Faith That Wears Well And Holds Its Color In All Weathers Is That Which Is Woven Of Conviction And Set With The Sharp Mordant Of Experience.

In The Earliest Ages Science Was Poetry, As In The Later Poetry Has Become Science.

Folks Never Understand The Folks They Hate.

The Time Is Ripe, And Rotten-ripe, For Change.

Whenever You Have The Kind Of Market That Is Taking Shape Now - A Wildly Volatile One With Big Pricing Discrepancies - It Plays Right Into The Hands Of Managers Who Are Very Focused On Research And Stock Picking.

Once To Every Person And Nation Come The Moment To Decide. In The Conflict Of Truth With Falsehood, For The Good Or Evil Side.

A Sneer Is The Weapon Of The Weak. Like Other Devil's Weapons, It Is Always Cunningly Ready To Our Hand, And There Is More Poison In The Handle Than In The Point.

It Is Singular How Impatient Men Are With Overpraise Of Others, How Patient Of Overpraise Of Themselves; And Yet The One Does Them No Injury, While The Other May Be Their Ruin.

Mishaps Are Like Knives, That Either Serve Us Or Cut Us, As We Grasp Them By The Blade Or The Handle.

To Be Young Is Surely The Best, If The Most Precarious, Gift Of Life.

The Nunneries Of Silent Nooks, The Murmured Longing Of The Wood.

True Scholarship Consists In Knowing Not What Things Exist, But What They Mean; It Is Not Memory But Judgment.

A Word Once Vulgarized Can Never Be Rehabilitated.

A Beggar Through The World Am I, From Place To Place I Wander By. Fill Up My Pilgrim's Scrip For Me, For Christ's Sweet Sake And Charity.

Again, Now, Now, Again Plashes The Rain In Heavy Gouts, The Crinkled Lightning Seems Ever Brightening... And Loud And Long Again The Thunder Shouts His Battle-song, - One Quivering Flash, One Wildering Crash, Followed By Silence Dead And Dull, As If The Cloud, Let Go, Leapt Bodily Below To Whelm The Earth In One Mad Overthrow, And Then A Total Lull.

A Great Man Is Made Up Of Qualities That Meet Or Make Great Occasions.

There Comes Emerson First, Whose Rich Words, Every One, Are Like Gold Nails In Temples To Hang Trophies On.

O Thou, Whose Days Are Yet All Spring, Faith, Blighted Once, Is Past Retrieving; Experience Is A Dumb, Dead Thing; The Victory's In Believing.

Not A Change For The Better In Our Human Housekeeping Has Ever Taken Place That Wise And Good Men Have Not Opposed It-have Not Prophesied That The World Would Wake Up To Find Its Throat Cut In Consequence.

For Men In Earnest Have No Time To Waste In Patching Fig-leaves For The Naked Truth.

I Willingly Confess To So Great A Partiality For Trees As Tempts Me To Respect A Man In Exact Proportion To His Respect For Them.

If Youth Be A Defect, It Is One That We Outgrow Only Too Soon.

Against The Windows The Storm Comes Dashing, Through Tattered Foliage The Hail Tears Crashing, The Blue Lightning Flashes, The Rapid Hail Clashes... The Thunder Is Rumbling And Crashing And Crumbling.

A Great Part Of Human Suffering Has Its Root In The Nature Of Man, And Not In That Of His Institutions.

There Is No Self-delusion More Fatal Than That Which Makes The Conscience Dreamy With The Anodyne Of Lofty Sentiments, While The Life Is Groveling And Sensual

He's True To God Who's True To Man.

The Thing We Long For, That We Are For One Transcendent Moment.

The Green Grass Floweth Like A Stream Into The Oceans's Blue.

Compromise Makes A Good Umbrella, But A Poor Roof; It Is Temporary Expedient, Often Wise In Party Politics, Almost Sure To Be Unwise In Statesmanship.

Freedom Needs All Her Poets; It Is They Who Give Her Aspirations Wings, And To The Wiser Law Of Music Sway Her Wild Imaginings.

Truth, After All, Wears A Different Face To Everybody, And It Would Be Too Tedious To Wait Till All Were Agreed. She Is Said To Lie At The Bottom Of A Well, For The Very Reason, Perhaps, That Whoever Looks Down In Search Of Her Sees His Own Image At The Bottom, And Is Persuaded Not Only That He Has Seen The Goddess, But That She Is Far Better Looking Than He Had Imagined.

Different Faces

Our Seasons Have No Fixed Returns, Without Our Will They Come And Go; At Noon Our Sudden Summer Burns, Ere Sunset All Is Snow.

Death Is Delightful. Death Is Dawn, The Waking From A Weary Night Of Fevers Unto Truth And Light.

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