The World Is To Be

A Bird In A Cage Is Not Half A Bird.

A Man Should Fear When He Only Enjoys What Good He Does Publicly. Is It Not The Publicity Rather Than The Charity He Loves? Is It Not Vanity, Rather Than Benevolence, That Gives Such Charities?

It Is A View Of God That Compensates Every Thing Else, And Enables The Soul To Rest In His Bosom. How, When The Child In The Night Screams With Terror, Hearing Sounds That It Knows Not Of, Is That Child Comforted And Put To Rest? Is It By A Philosophical Explanation That The Sounds Were Made By The Rats In The Partition? Is It By Imparting Entomological Knowledge? No; It Is By The Mother Taking The Child In Her Lap, And Singing Sweetly To It, And Rocking It. And The Child Thinks Nothing Of The Explanation, But Only Of The Mother.

This World Is Not A Platform Where You Will Hear Thalberg-piano-playing. It Is A Piano Manufactory, Where Are Dust And Shavings And Boards, And Saws And Files And Rasps And Sandpapers. The Perfect Instrument And The Music Will Be Hereafter.

What Place Is So Rugged And So Homely That There Is No Beauty; If You Only Have A Sensibility To Beauty?