The Ornaments Of Our Homes

A Ruddy Drop Of Manly Blood The Surging Sea Outweighs; The World Uncertain Comes And Goes, The Lover Rooted Stays.

Wherever A Man Commits A Crime, God Finds A Witness. Every Secret Crime Has Its Reporter.

Harmony Of Aim, Not Identity Of Conclusion, Is The Secret Of Sympathetic Life.

Society Is An Illusion To The Young Citizen. It Lies Before Him In Rigid Repose, With Certain Names, Men, And Institutions, Rootedlike Oak-trees To The Centre, Round Which All Arrange Themselves The Best They Can. But The Old Statesman Knows That Society Is Fluid; There Are No Such Roots And Centres; But Any Particle May Suddenly Become The Centre Of The Movement, And Compel The System To Gyrate Round It, As Every Man Of Strong Will, Like Pisistratus, Or Cromwell, Does For A Time, And Every Man Of Truth, Like Plato, Or Paul, Does Forever.

It Is One Light Which Beams Out Of A Thousand Stars. It Is One Soul Which Animates All Men.