One Never Hugs One's Good

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.

I Have Learned To Prize The Quiet, Lightning Deed, Not The Applauding Thunder At Its Heels That Men Call Fame.

A Thought May Be Very Commendable As A Thought, But I Value It Chiefly As A Window Through Which I Can Obtain Insight On The Thinker.

Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature Has To Hide, And She Hides It Well.

Men And Women Make Their Own Beauty Or Their Own Ugliness. Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton Speaks In One Of His Novels Of A Man "who Was Uglier Than He Had Any Business To Be;" And, If We Could But Read It, Every Human Being Carries His Life In His Face, And Is Good-looking Or The Reverse As That Life Has Been Good Or Evil. On Our Features The Fine Chisels Of Thought And Emotion Are Eternally At Work.