{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_16065/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_16065","id":"gutenberg_16065","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16065","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Maxims"],"text":"Produced by Early Canadiana Online, Robert Cicconetti,\nChuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\nat https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nWISE OR OTHERWISE\n\n\nBy\n\nLYDIA LEAVITT\n\nand\n\nThad. W.H. Leavitt\n\n\n\n\nWISE OR OTHERWISE\n\n_Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1898, by Lydia\nLeavitt and Thad. W.H. Leavitt, at the Department of Agriculture._\n\n\n\n\nWISE OR OTHERWISE\n\n\nBY\n\nLYDIA LEAVITT\n\nAUTHOR OF \"BOHEMIAN SOCIETY,\" \"A TRIP AROUND THE WORLD,\" ETC., ETC.\n\n\nAND\n\nTHAD. W.H. LEAVITT\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THE WITCH OF PLUM HOLLOW,\" \"KAFFIR, KANGAROO, KLONDIKE, TALES\nOF THE GOLD FIELDS, ETC.\"\n\n\n_Illustrated by Anna Lake_\n\n\n  WELLS PUBLISHING CO.\n  TORONTO\n  1898\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n_BOOK THE FIRST_\n\n    \"LEAD KINDLY LIGHT.\"\n    A FABLE.\n    THE WIND.\n    PASSING THOUGHTS.\n\n_BOOK THE SECOND_\n\n    ODDS AND ENDS.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nIt is probable that the reader will discover among the \"Short Sayings\"\nsome familiar acquaintance and even old friend, unconsciously\nappropriated. Should such be the case, kindly credit to the \"Wise\" and\nleave the \"Otherwise\" to\n\nTHE AUTHORS.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THE FIRST\n\nBY\n\nLYDIA LEAVITT\n\n\n\n\nLEAD KINDLY LIGHT\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\"Lead, kindly light,\" The words are lightly spoken by the young,\nwho tread life's pathway with nimble feet, whose eager hands are\noutstretched to gather life's roses, regardless of thorns, whose voice\nis rippling with laughter and mirth, with blood coursing through the\nveins and bright eyes looking fearlessly into the future; the words have\nmerely a joyous, musical ring. \"Lead, kindly light.\"\n\n\"Lead, kindly light.\" The words are gravely spoken by the middle-aged,\nwhose feet have grown a trifle weary, whose hands have gathered the\nroses, only to find them turned to ashes, whose laughter has more\nsadness than mirth, whose eyes have grown dim, whose lips tremblingly\nplead, \"Lead, kindly light.\" \"Lead, kindly light.\" The words are\nwhispered by the old, whose tired feet are unable to move, whose palsied\nhands are helpless, whose head is bowed by the weight of years, whose\neyes are sightless, from whose trembling lips are scarcely heard the\nwhispered prayer, \"Lead, kindly light.\"\n\n\"Lead, kindly light.\" The sunken eyes are closed in death, the tired\nhands are folded, the heart has ceased to beat, the mute lips are\nstilled, the weary feet are at rest, a look of ineffable peace rests\nupon the still face, while all the air is filled with sweet music and\nthe murmur of gentle voices pleading, \"Lead, kindly light.\"\n\n\n\n\nA FABLE\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn one of the German forests the stood a tree, which could not be\nclassified by any of the learned scientists. It was not more beautiful\nthan many others, but there were distinctive peculiarities which no\nother tree possessed. Her dress was of a sadder hue than that of her\ncompanions, and the birds refused to build their nests in her branches.\nShe was unable to understand the language of her brothers and sisters\nand so stood alone and unheeded in the dense forest. One morning she\nawakened and found standing by her side a companion tree, odd, like\nherself, and she said in her heart:--\"I shall be no longer alone. He\nwill understand my language and we shall hold sweet converse.\" But he,\nin his heart, was saying--\"What strange tree is this? We two are unlike\nall our companions. I like it not.\" But she did not hear the murmur of\ndiscontent, and her heart grew glad within her at the great joy that had\ncome to her and she said in her heart:--\"I will cause him to forget that\nwe are unlike our companions; I will sing to him my softest songs and\ngradually her dress of sombre green assumed a brighter hue, young buds\nsprang forth, her branches waved softly in the breeze and she wooed the\nbirds by gentle voice to build their nests in her arms, and,\n\n    \"In foul weather and in fair,\n    Day by day in vaster numbers,\n    Flocked the poets of the air.\"\n\nAt eventide she folded them in her bosom, that their songs might not\ndisturb the sleep of her companion, and while all the forest slept, she\nalone was awake and, in the silence of the night, she murmured softly,\n\"Ich liebe Dich,\" and when the sun arose the birds from her arms flew\nthrough the forest, singing, \"Ich liebe Dich,\" and all the trees took up\nthe song; the birds, the trees and the brooks caught up the refrain and\nall the great forest sang, \"Ich liebe Dich, Ich liebe Dich.\"\n\nSo the summer passed and her heart grew sad, for she saw the discontent\nof her companion, but she said to herself, \"When the winter comes I will\nshelter him from the blasts,\" but he said complainingly, \"I would I were\nlike the other trees; I would like my garments to be as those I see\naround me. I would my limbs were as those of my companions all through\nthe forest.\" And she heard, and said to herself, \"I will make his\ngarments of brilliant green.\" So she sent from her own roots and\nbranches the sap--her life blood--to enrich the roots and beautify the\ndress of her companion. When the cold blast of winter swept through the\nforest she sheltered him with her long limbs, when the snow fell she\ncovered his head with her branches and caught the weight of snow in her\nown arms; so all through the long winter she sheltered him from the\nblasts and the weight of snow bore heavily on her branches and at times\nthey grew weary almost to breaking but her great heart never faltered.\n\nSo the spring came and day by day she sent from her own store of\nlife-blood to enrich that of her companion and soon his garments assumed\nthe most brilliant hues of all the trees in the forest; the leaves\nglinted and glistened in the sunlight, and from the branches there was\never a low murmur of song; the birds came to build their nests and rear\ntheir young in his arms; and over all there floated a delicate perfume\nborn of the love which she had breathed over him all the long winter. So\nin all the forest there was none so beautiful and stately as he.\n\nHis companion said, \"Now will he be happy,\" but her own great heart\nbegan to beat more slowly, the life-blood of which she had given him\ncould not be replaced, and her garments gradually assumed a sombre hue\nand her arms were empty, for the birds no longer nested there.\n\nOne morning she awakened and found her companion gone. He had joined the\nother trees in the forest; and now the limbs that had borne the weight\nof snow began to wither, her leaves began to fall, and when the winter\ncame again there was no raiment to cover her.\n\nAnd the woodman said,\n\n\"We will cut this tree down, it is dead.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIND\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Hark to the voice of the wind!\" we say, as the windows rattle and house\nshakes; the winds as they shout in angry voices, clamoring louder in\ntheir fury, are telling of storms at sea, of the battles with the ships\nand the brave hearts that have gone to their death.\n\n    \"It has been on the desolate ocean\n      When the lightening struck the mast;\n    It has heard the cry of the drowning,\n      Who sank as they hurried past.\n    The words of despair and anguish\n      That were heard by no living ear;\n    The gun that no signal answered--\n      It brings them all to us here.\n    Hark to the voice of the wind!\"\n\nIt shakes angrily the trees whose limbs are swaying in protest against\nthe onslaught; it carries the leaves rustling to the ground, and in its\nfury uproots the giant oaks, which groan in agony as they are hurled to\nthe ground, lying like soldiers on the field of battle.\n\n    \"Hark to the voice of the wind!\"\n\nIts fury is abated, and softly, like a benediction it enters the room\nwhere the weary mother is watching by the bedside of her sick child; it\ngently fans the fevered head; it touches with a caress the parched lips\nof the babe, and with murmur of song it lulls the child to rest.\n\n    \"Hark to the voice of the wind.\"\n\nIt enters the counting room of the tired man of business, bringing a\nperfume of flowers: he lays down his pen, while his thoughts go back to\nthe home of his boyhood, to the meadows, to the hillside covered with\nflowers, the new-mown hay, and the tired brain is refreshed, he knows\nnot how, and the unseen messenger is gone--\n\n    \"Hark to the voice of the wind!\"\n\nIt visits the silent City of the Dead and gently scatters the leaves\nover the new-made grave of a young child, sighing softly the while, the\nvoice now rising, now falling, sobbing and moaning, and at last dies\naway in a melancholy sound, like the strings of an Aeolian harp touched\nby unseen hands.\n\n    \"Hark to the music of the wind!\"\n\nHuman nature approaches the Divine in moments of great sacrifice,\nforgiveness and self-forgetfulness.\n\n\n\n\nPASSING THOUGHTS\n\n\n\"It seems the fate of woman to wait in silence while men act,\" 'Men must\nwork and woman must weep.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow delightful it must be to understand one's own nature thoroughly, to\nknow that no whirlwind will ever sweep us off the beaten track, no\nstormy passions stir the calm placidity of our life. But is that life?\nNo, give me the glories of expectation, the wildest exhaltation; the\nheart beating, the brain throbbing, the stormiest passions with force\nenough to carry everything before them, even if they bring deep\ngrief--that is life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPeople who deal in dry, hard facts are not interesting. They may make\nthemselves names in the financial world, may become railway magnates and\ncoal kings, may control the money market; but they are not interesting.\nThey are the prose of life. They who see the clouds forming into\nfantastic shapes, the glories of a sunset, the shadows in pools, the\ncolour on a bird's wing, the rose tint on the cheek of a child,--they\nand such as they are the poetry of life.\n\nMan's inhumanity to man is proverbial, woman's inhumanity to woman is\ndiabolical.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Society, as it exists at present moment in Colonial towns and cities,\npossesses neither birth, brains or breeding.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"We hear men speak so frequently of womanly women, ending their praises\nwith, 'she is essentially womanly.' I knew one of these womanly women,\nwhose voice was like liquid music, whose ways were gentle, whose eyes\nfilled with tears at the recital of some tale of woe, and always about\nher was an air of gentle, womanly sweetness and dainty femininity. She\nhad a friend who loved her, one whose voice was not so soft, whose\nmanner was brusque, who was considered, \"not quite good form, you know.\"\nMy womanly woman allowed this friend to take upon herself the burden of\na sin which she herself had committed, allowed her to bear the brunt of\nscorn and contumely of her world, allowed her to die without righting\nthe great wrong. A lonely grave and a plain marble slab mark the spot\nwhere she who was \"not quite good form,\" lies: while she, to whom she\nhad given more than life, gathers the rose leaves with dainty grace, for\nshe is so essentially 'womanly.'\"\n\nLife: a little joy, great sorrow, some tragedy, and the curtain falls.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNothing can hurt so cruelly as the hand of love. The hand of hate is\nvelvet in comparison.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are women who consider the world well lost for the man whom they\nlove and idealize; while upon close acquaintance they would discover\nthat he was not worth even the loss of a dinner.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwelve \"good men and true\", will, after mature deliberation, consign a\nman to the gallows. Twelve women, good and true, will, without any\ndeliberation, send a woman to death by their venomous tongues.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are a few people who would change their individuality for that of\nanother. We might be willing to exchange positions, to exchange all that\nis apparent to the eyes of the world, but our inner consciousness, our\nmemories, our thoughts, feelings and desires; all that is part and\nparcel of ourselves, we hold sacred.\n\nSome minds are so small that a favour weighs heavily upon them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt times one is inclined to believe that even the gods are guilty of\nfavouritism.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome people's lives are like a flower, the more they are crushed, the\nsweeter the perfume they exhale.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are some people who look so rigidly virtuous and repellant that it\nis a satisfaction to feel one's self just a little bit wicked.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe look to the higher classes and to the lower for good breeding. Middle\nclass people are proverbially ill-bred. What can equal the airs and\nassumptions of the retired grocer's wife, who has neither the breeding\nof a lady, nor the unaffected manner of the working-woman.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat a pity there is such an incessant babbling of human tongues, when\nthe daisies by the wayside, the trees of the forest, the birds in their\nnests, could tell us such wondrous things if our ears were attuned to\nhear, but the senses are deadened by the discordant din of dismal\nsounds.\n\nLove is the one power which transfigures the common things of life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne-half of our lives is spent in making blunders, the other half in\ntrying to rectify them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow useless to tell many people to think, for they have nothing to\nthink. A man reasons, a woman divines.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are so many inconsistencies in life that at times one is appalled.\nTake marriage, for instance:--A young woman marries a man who is\ntottering on the brink of the grave; old, blaze, a worn-out roue; but\nwith money enough to gild and gloss the antiquated ruin. She goes before\na clergyman and promises to love, honour and obey. Yes; she loves the\nluxury with which she will be surrounded, the glitter of diamonds, the\nequipages, the great house, all the paraphanalia of wealth, but she\n_hates_ the trembling, tottering, blear-eyed object who bought her.\n\nThe clergyman gives his blessing, society receives them with open arms,\nand legalized prostitution is upheld by the majesty of the law and\nencircled by the sanctified robes of the Church.\n\nThe ruling passion of the age: worship of self and worship of pelf.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe age of good breeding has passed; insolence has taken its place.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA woman ceases to think of self when she looks in the face of her\nnew-born child.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are people who go through life as if they were going to their own\nfuneral--and did not enjoy it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI would rather have for a friend the most thorough-paced scamp, with a\ngenerous heart, than the most respectable, canting, whining, Pharisee.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo stand in a rarefied atmosphere on a mountain height and view the\nstruggles of ordinary mortals below may be poetic, but it is very\nlonely.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA woman may defy the world for a man she loves, and imagine that he will\nlove her for the sacrifice, but no greater mistake can be made. Men are\nnot so constituted. When he sees her standing alone, dishonored, a mark\nfor the finger of scorn, her charm for him is forever lost.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\nRealism is the grave of love.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA woman's smile is two edged.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLife is too short to prepare a soul for eternity\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA great love is only inspired by a great nature.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is as wise to cultivate forgetfulness as memory.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSociety, a haven for fools; literature and art for brains.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMany people have courage to face anything but themselves.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA woman is always in love, either with herself or with love.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo things in life man regards with esteem: himself and his pipe.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTruth and sincerity are only found in the face of a child and the eyes\nof a dog.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA young face and an old heart are sorry companions, but an old face and\na young heart are sorrier still.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat people will 'say' is the bugbear of small minds.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLove would cease to exist were it not for the gift of idealizing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA fly is but a small thing, yet it can disturb the greatest philosopher.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIs a new soul created at every birth, or are we merely corpses warmed\nover?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKind words and a sympathetic handclasp have done more to reclaim lost\nsouls than all the tracts ever published.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA minute is a short duration of time, yet in that interval one may\nexperience the whole gamut of human emotions.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf the world valued us as we value ourselves the heavens would not be\nsufficiently large whereon to inscribe our greatness.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat becomes of the characters who play an important part in fiction;\nthe strong, brave, true fiction-people, whom we love as we read? Is\nthere no place for them in the world peopled by shadows?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are men who will accept any and every sacrifice from a woman and\nafter making her a wreck, socially and morally, will say to her, \"I fear\nthat I am injuring you, so I will sacrifice myself and deny myself the\npleasure of your society.\" Such men would sneak into heaven by a side\nentrance.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFate, in a sportive mood, performs some wonderful acrobatic feats with\nhuman nature; gives love of oriental luxury to the woman with nothing a\nyear; appreciation of all that is beautiful and artistic, to the\nploughman; an epicurian taste to the starving mechanic; while to the\nwoman rolling in wealth is given the manners and tastes of the\nfish-wife; to the multi-millionaire the habits of the canaille, and fate\nlaughs with glee over the fantastic, incongruous muddle of the thing\ncalled Life.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THE SECOND\n\nBY\n\nTHAD. W.H. LEAVITT\n\n\n\n\nODDS AND-ENDS\n\n\nMan's greatest enemy is himself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNever chide fate while will sleeps.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe prophet must know the past.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFoul words kill the sweetest flowers.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRepentant tears are the soul's pearls.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCommon customs are not nature's laws.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo man blesses the calm until after the storm.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMuch study makes a full head and an empty stomach.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou cannot fan the ashes of a dead love into a flame.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nInnocence, like a beautiful dying day, goes out with a purple blush.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo steer the true course, one must not only see the star but have a\npilot.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is easier to remove a mountain than to wash out a spot on a woman's\nreputation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe marble heart has valves of flint.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\nWomen covet satin, as men covet gold.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe garments of virtue are of spun gold.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen law is blind examine your own heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nValour in defence of wrong becomes a crime.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMan ceases to be a man when his passions die.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTrembling patience is better than proud evil.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMalice and ignorance constantly itch for trouble.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLife is not a funeral dole but a living present.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe honours the state who refuses to commit a wrong.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOpportunities, like pretty maids, should be embraced.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMan's injustice to man shall not be an eternal stain.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDefeat may be more glorious than victory.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nVenom is the juice of a toad tainting the sweet air.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou have but to sow the seeds of malice to reap a crop of grief.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMen who would face a cannon, tremble before a golden calf.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is no music for man so sweet as that set upon a woman's tongue.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI never could understand why doleful songs should herald a joyous\nhereafter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf you keep your eyes fixed upon the stars you will fall into the first\nmill pond.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou are told, \"That if you violate a sacrament of the church you will\nhowl in hell for it.\" You know that if you violate nature's laws you\nwill howl here.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhile poverty spins threads of gold with which to weave a garment to\ncover her nakedness, the plutocrat melts the threads into sovereigns for\nhis own use.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery yellow stream is not the Tiber.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe wise man dreads, not noise, but eternal silence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLoud complaints may be only vents for little ills.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is not enough to conceive a truth, we must act.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen one is bereft of hope the last sorrow has arrived.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe woman who loves not flattery has yet to be born.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis must be a golden age--everybody is running after it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBeauty is the recompense given to women for her weakness.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome sins squeak like a snared rabbit--others roar like a lion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn immaculate reputation may hide a multitude of black lies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAngels walk on threads of gold from heaven to earth. These threads are\nonly spun in the loom of the human heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbject spirits creep--men walk.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA small hole is a cavern to a mole.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA kiss hangs not long on a pretty lip.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou cannot rear a new babe on old milk.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA man may woo a dove and marry a screech owl.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSatire is a javelin which pierces the thickest skin.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA mist may hide the sun but it does not blot it out.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome women prefer a great infamy to a little honour.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRegard not the manner of your death but your daily life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA churlish silence is harder to endure than a sharp tongue.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe man who gives away his freedom is everlastingly bankrupt.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe rubbish from men's tongues is hoarded while nature speaks unheard.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHuman misery is not a volunteer.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMirth's best nursery is contentment.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMen fly, women melt into a passion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPrejudice is the marrow of superstition.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBetter a crust of bread than a funeral elegy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWoman's first fault is no excuse for man's last.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKind words are honey drops to the tired soul.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA bad tongue is not the clapper of a good heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCrossed love is forgotten--crossed opinions, never.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDistrust but do not refuse an untried remedy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHope is the only flavour for a diet of adversity.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe is near to happiness who makes another smile.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGreed is swifter than a greyhound.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nResults give the lie to many boasts.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNothing beslimes like a fawning tongue.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe smallest pirates fly the blackest flags.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe coming tempest is no less a great wind.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBetter a bleeding wound than pent up agony.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGigantic robberies are nevertheless robberies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery furrow in the brow represents a drag-tooth of care.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA tempestuous petticoat is more bewitching than a satin gown.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor the light of beauty men go down into the darkest pits.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe smart of the lash soon dies--the memory of it never.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe meaner a man is, the meaner he not only feels but looks.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe greenest turf covers the blackest soil.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOnly an earthquake can shake a selfish soul.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne woman-wolf is more to be dreaded than a den of lions.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are women whose smile is poison, whose touch is death.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBequeath your good deeds to memory, your bad deeds to oblivion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPity, as soft as feathered flakes of snow, whitens all it falls upon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf we peep behind a curtain we may see the ghost of our own hopes\ngrinning at us.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe albatross, like a great soul, remains aloft without the flutter of a\nfeather.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy sovereign hope is the inate desire of the human heart that justice be\ndone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLove is as much higher, than justice as is the tallest mountain above an\nant hill.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe people have so often been beguiled that now they refuse to believe\nthe truth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\nWhy is it that down hill is always greased?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA stain upon a woman's honour is indelible.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nInsolence is brutal--arrogance, intolerable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe seeds of ill grow best in the most sterile soil.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA heart pickled in gall cannot be called a sweetmeat.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe promise of eternal sleep is not sweet to a live man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe most worthless woman is bought at the highest price.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA man can put away his wife but he cannot divorce a memory.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMany of our good intentions are so feeble, that like snow flakes, they\nmelt as they come.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe earth is a fertile womb bringing forth fruits for all. A few men\nclaim they are God's first sons and take the crop.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are women who breath forth intoxicating perfumes. The man who\ninhales them is in danger of great good or of great evil.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNature, unheard, performs her greatest deeds.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIngratitude is a tree whose fruit poisons the very air.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMany could make lye out of the cold ashes of their hopes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGather the blossoms daily--the frost may come at night.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPlant no flowers on the graves of those we have neglected in life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome men are not content so long as an unfinished crime remains.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome men prefer the drudgery of the devil to the sleep of innocence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWomen are tempted to taste a little evil, just to know what it is like.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery life leads up to a precipice, over which a few jump, the others\ntumble in and are lost.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe know that death is ever marching behind us but we never name the day\nwhen he will catch up.\n\nTo hunt for mischief is to catch disaster.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEven a sigh trembles through the universe.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNature must love woman to fashion her so beautiful.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe chain of some men's fate must be made of adamant.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRevere the dust--it was the men and women of long ago.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe keenest blade in South Africa is made from Ralph iron.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe believed her an angel--married and found her only a woman.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA curled knot of snakes is not as deadly as the signature to a mortgage.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn London they no longer say, \"Lend me your purse--but your name.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA painter's description of matrimony--\n\n  Introduction: the background.\n  Courtship: the middle ground.\n  Engagement: the foreground.\n  Marriage: the nude subject.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKruger is the epitome of obsolete ideas and living force.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA bleating lamb in a great city is in greater danger than in the darkest\nwood.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere be three birds.\n\nOne lives only in the highest altitudes.\n\nThis bird is Truth.\n\nOne lives on the plain.\n\nThis bird is Expediency.\n\nOne lives in the mire.\n\nThis bird is Subserviency.\n\nHe who writes with a feather plucked from the wing of the first bird\nwill not be listened to for ages to come.\n\nHe who writes with a feather plucked from the wing of the second bird\nwill receive the plaudits of the people.\n\nHe who writes with a feather plucked from the wing of the third bird\nwill be worshipped by the mob.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNot gold, not broad acres, not vast power, not blazoned titles, not\neloquence, but truth is the lever which moves the world.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Europe completes the process of Christianizing China that nation\nwill have disappeared from the map.\n\nThe truth-seeker never digs in the columns of the political newspaper.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA money shaver with a conscience would soon be poorer than his clients.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI have read of the dog-like affection of woman--I have seen their\ncat-like characteristics.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBread snatched from the poor becomes a stone in the rich man's belly. He\nhas only to eat his fill to sink.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat a gas lamp is to a moth, the same is a rose diamond to a\nwoman--neither see the danger till they are dead.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn olden times Sodom and Gomorrah swallowed up the wicked. In modern\ntimes Chicago swallows up the good.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nChinaman's soliloquy. \"First come missionary, big prayers, little book.\nSingee 'Peace on earth and good willee to all men.' Russian Bear swallow\nManchuria, French Eagle strippe off Yellow Jacket, Bille Emperor stealee\nPeacock Feather, English Lion grabbe Pig Tail. Damme, hungry lion want\neverything.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSlander is more subtile than any microbe.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou cannot squander ten thousand a year and then balance the account by\nthrusting a stale bun, dipped in charity soup, into a beggar's hand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLolling on a velvet cushion in a fashionable church will not be a valid\nanswer when you meet the poor girl 'beyond' whom you ground down to make\ntrousers for twenty cents a pair. You didn't do it? You wore the\ntrousers, it's all the same.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA cynic's description of the honeymoon--\n\n  Kisses allopathic.\n  Kisses homeopathic.\n  The cold douche.\n  Hot mustard plasters.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA lawyer's description of matrimony in the United States--\n\n  Court--Appeal.\n  The suit filed.\n  Rival--an interpleader.\n  Marriage. Judgement given.\n  Household expenses. Costs.\n  Family jars. Proceedings for alimony.\n  Final hearing. Divorce absolute.\n  Quit claim. Deed to another man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sea-side resorts attract many queer fish.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe politician is what the people make him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe child which cries for bread is a menace to the state.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nInfamy may rise to such a height as to become famous.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMore women have been killed by innuendo than by hard work.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo the small boy a circus is more alluring than the Psalms of Solomon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEternity is an endless chain whose links are youth, old age and decay.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe shark turns on his back to devour his prey--the hypocrite prays that\nhe may devour.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe money lender should provide himself with an asbestos overcoat when\nhe leaves this world.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery girl in store or office means a man without employment. Every man\nwithout employment is a man incapable of supporting a wife. Do you see\nthe inevitable result?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLaughter is the doctor's deadliest enemy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPraise is the cheapest coin but more potent than gold.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf all men were brothers nations would cease to exist.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYears are required to make a brutal man--hours, a woman.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe praise God for our victories. What does the other fellow do?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPatriotism is but another name for, 'love yourself and hate your\nneighbors.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf churches were made as attractive as gin palaces, the former, not the\nlatter, would be open six days in the week.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen you get there, you will find that Eternal Justice is not built on\nthe departmental store system. Some pale-faced girl will offer the\nevidence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOnce Pity and Charity perched on every cloistered gate and cried,\n'welcome.' Now they only venture forth on public occasions, when they\nwill be seen of all men.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe cat's serenade gives tone to the back yard.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMental problem. Suicide or side-tracked. Which?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe laugh of a child is sweeter to God than a forty minute prayer.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Klondike is as alluring as a pretty woman and equally as freakish.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe greatness of the Yukon is only surpassed by the greatness of its\nliars.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nInnocence is a rose bud with a worm outside waiting to gnaw a hole in\nit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA blood-sucker on a boy's toe looks bigger to him than a sea-serpent to\na man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn Easter bonnet is more satisfying to a woman than the most eloquent\nsermon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe witch doctor taboos a banana tree, the parson the joyous dance. Both\nare bigots.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe nigger who has learned to drink rum does not regard civilization as\nan unmixed blessing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe beautiful is eternal.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn epitaph. \"He went North and found his grave.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe cold marble becomes a living flame under the hands of the sculptor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe cannot turn water into wine but some men come very near turning wine\ninto water.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe coral shell stores up the glorious tints of the sun's rays--the\nthoughtful man the words of the wise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA returned Klondiker with gold very much resembles charity--frequently\nread of, seldom seen.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhence comes eternal truths? They are written in the rocks, they are\nbreathed out of the soft, South wind; they are painted in the sunset,\nthey speak in the flowers and the tiny blade of grass, they twinkle in\ndistant stars. Ages go by and yet man grasps but one, here and there.\nThey are messengers to every man, gifted or untaught. He who seizes but\none and embalms it has done a greater service to mankind than the\nmightiest king.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nProhibition is a frozen dream, real life a red-hot time.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nInquisitiveness is but another name for the Auditor General.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCapital account is a cavern wherein politicians hide their sins.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe summer girl, in the biggest wind, is never blown away from a man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe editor writes most charmingly of country life in his easiest chair.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nChurch choirs are always at sixes and sevens. One day of harmony and six\nof discord.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA young widow's sorrow for her husband is a phantom minnow--looks\ngenuine but hides the hook.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhile the bankrupt tradesman rides in his carriage, his honest\ncompetitor is in the back yard sawing wood.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe uglier a woman's face, the nearer to her chin is the hem of her\nbathing skirt, no doubt to hide her blushes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe French are steadfast of purpose.\nWhat purpose?\nChanging the Ministry!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEnglish poet in the Soudan,--\"We are carrying 'Sweetness and light' into\ndarkest Africa!\"\n\nTommy,--\"Yes, we let the light in with the Lee-Metford and the Egyptian\ntax-collector will sweeten these coves later on.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMayor of New York,--\"We must return the 'Torch of Liberty' by the first\nFrench steamer.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"To dispel the Dreyfus gloom.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIrate Mother-in-law (to son-in-law about to marry second wife),--\"Is\nthis the way you treat my daughter, lying in the dark grave?\"\n\n\"Only striking a match to see into it.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOut of the loins of pride and avarice comes the innocent child. Why is\nthis? It cannot be chance. It means something. When we discover what\nthat something is we shall remain innocent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGreed grasps while poverty gasps.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe agony of despair breeds the monster, 'Human Hate.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe man who refuses to lend to the Lord distrusts the security.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe blood of the pauper shall smear the couch of the indolent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sweat of the poor, frozen into gold, gilds the rich man's purse.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe time must come when the dragon's teeth, sown by the rich, will bring\nforth a harvest of cold steel.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMother in the kitchen at the wash tub. Daughter in the parlor at the\npiano. Quite proper; its a case of rub-a-dub-dub.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhy came we here? By blind chance or design? The books are full of\nguesses, half-truths and lies. We only know that we are here. From\nwhence we came and whither we go is the problem. Being here, our highest\nendeavors should be to do some little good. Then close our eyes and wait\nfor the answer. We can find it in no other way.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMan and misery are not twins but father and son.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe woman to whom temptation never came cannot be said to be virtuous.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe blast of the golden bugle shall not always drown the wail of the\npoor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen faults lie thick and die, the crop of good deeds to follow will be\nthe greater.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA priest at ten thousand a year is a monument erected over the grave of\nChristianity.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe cry of the child for bread reaches further into the universe than\npeans sung to kings.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Eve was created nature must have cried 'no,' for ever since woman\nhas continued to repeat the word.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe rich go about the world on stilts, lest the poor should touch the\nhems of their garments. They are so so high in the air that they gather\nno perfume from the wild flowers blooming by the wayside.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe hand of Justice has lost its thumb and forefinger.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nVulgar speech is a drop of filth from a rotten heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA fly never sees the window pane until his bruised nose bleeds.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe greatest kindness is that which we are not compelled to remember.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMy aspirations are cut out with a broad sword. My results with a pen\nknife.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe mathemetician can measure a world, yet he cannot weigh the secret\nthing which stirs a poet's heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMan has waited for ages for heaven to help him. Heaven has waited\nequally long for man to help himself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSlaves are bound with fetters of steel--poor men with fetters of law.\nOne corrodes with age, the other is perpetually renewed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe devil fish of the sea claws his victim, then sinks to the bottom.\nThe devil fish of the land claws his, then rises to the top.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWant issues from the womb of greed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJustice will be done when greed dies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSympathy is the sheet-anchor of the Ship of Life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne tear is more potent for good than a thousand laws.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCharity, though white of plumage, is born of black parents.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe avenger strikes down one evil and creates a thousand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nUniversal love is, but another name for universal happiness.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLife without hope is death without a grave wherein to find rest.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA man is not only responsible for his acts, but for their influence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo know, and not to do is vile--to do and not to know, an accident.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe white flowers of sympathy shall yet bloom over graves in which the\nrich rot.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLuxury lulls--poverty dulls.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA fat priest and a poor flock.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe hooked fish has an open mouth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe money lender loves a close shave.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPreachers and brokers, alike, deal in future options.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHumility is sweet but its path is strewn with bitter herbs.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe change for which every woman prays--a change of name.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPassengers inside the coach 'Prosperity,' never see the galled steeds.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe knout pinches the slave's back. The combine, the free man's belly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe ball dress is diplomatic, in that it reveals what it pretends to\nconceal.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is colour in the statement that one nigger in a missionary report\nthrows a shadow greater than ten white men.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nVile thoughts only bloom on the dung-hills of depravity.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCoarseness is as akin to vice as the flame to the candle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIndolence lolls in luxury while energy goes hungry to bed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nToil with recompense is sweeter than recompense without toil.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIs the African heathen more precious than a sick child in a London\ngarret?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe ashes of a bad woman cannot be cleansed with the waters of an ocean.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe who walks the street by night is an outcast. She who seduces a\nPrince may die a Queen.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPrinces on sale for gold, women for titles, virtue for bread, statesmen\nfor place, and priests for salary.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMonopoly. A whip in the hands of plutocrats, which bites the backs of\nmen and saddens the hearts of women.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo soul can remain stagnant.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA gossip scatters more ills than a pestilence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Tis useless to kill the serpent after she has laid her eggs.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe poison on the fang cannot injure till the snake strikes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the unctious priest wants to borrow he cries, 'Lend to the Lord.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe should not blot out the sun because its rays will hatch the eggs of a\nserpent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe lion of the jungle seizes his prey by night. The lion of the city by\nday; one is stripped to the bone, the other to the shirt.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBirds are charmed by snakes, women by beasts in human form. The glitter\nof the eye subdues the one, the glitter of gold, the other.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOver the grave of each child which dies in the slums should stand a\ntablet inscribed, \"Died for want of sunlight and pure air.\" \"Who stole\nthe land?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne tyrant dies that two may be born.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA wise man prefers virgin soil to a cultivated widow.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe bone of contention is never covered with sweet meat.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe woman is most lost who forgets her babe for the ball.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSelf-righteousness can walk so straight that it leans backwards.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMore women are drowned 'in the swim' than in mill ponds.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen death knocks at the door the servant answers, 'Not at home.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA winged Cupid without a feather can soar higher than the pinioned\neagle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe who seeks for spiritual rest in dogma will find only a bottomless\npit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA wish from the heart travels beyond the blare of the loudest trumpet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is better to lavish your affections upon a faithful dog than upon an\nunfaithful friend.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe poor man craves for bread--not logic.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA woman without love is a tree without sap.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe plutocrats, like the Catholics, thrive on curses.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGood advice is an atom; good deeds the universe.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe beautiful seraph makes the most dangerous fiend.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe ghost of poverty is more dreadful than poverty itself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA religion of details is a fruit tree which produces only blossoms.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEach grain in the universe is a unit, remove but one and chaos will\nfollow.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHills sunlit with promise are easier to traverse than the level road\nupon which hope died.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is as easy for the poor man to pluck money from the rich as for the\nmissionary to pick the pocket's of a naked savage.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA tainted heart soils the sweetest lip.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nExchange the virus of hate for the antidote, love.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA woman prefers a fervent lover to a cold husband.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA fickle woman may conquer the most constant soldier.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe begrimed soul cannot be hidden with a white-wash brush.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOur efforts should be to harmonize, not simply to change.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe most precious gem is found in the most worthless sand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Senate joined to the Commons is an impotent man wedded to a vigorous\nmaid.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe bombastic egotist floats on the crest of prosperity while the\nphilosopher starves in his tub.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe priest counsels men in the sterile present to feed upon a pregnant\nfuture. Tomorrows dinner never yet fed a hungry man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAll the good in a human heart can never die.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou cannot denude a woman of her masked thoughts.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDiplomacy is cultivated in men and bred in women.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe who would pluck contentment must abandon force.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo console a widow is more agreeable than to court a maid.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe man who stains the purity of a woman tarnishes his own soul.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is difficult to distinguish the fleshy lie from the ghostly truth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe private ownership of land is crystalized in the question \"Is the\nunborn child an heir or a bastard?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLove of the artistic does not account for the crookedness of men, though\nthe curve is the only true line of beauty.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSly women walk where blunt men fall.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe stench of corruption is fragrant to the lobbyist.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA shrivelled soul may hide in a bishop's paunch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA slippery friend is more dangerous than thin ice.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe kangaroo and the miser carry all they love in a pouch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou cannot staunch a bleeding wound with a memory or a promise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMarriage is a covenant which few women refuse and many revoke.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEmotion in woman is the locomotive--wisdom, the cow-catcher.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA misfit policy is as dangerous to a statesman as a misfit dress to a\nwoman.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sting of a bee is not the less to be dreaded because the bee makes\nhoney.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCreed is as akin to righteousness as a 'bucket shop' to the kingdom of\nheaven.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn act cannot die.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo exist is not to live.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDegeneracy is born of many parents.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe rich man gives advice, the poor man bread.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHappiness is now a theory, I would make it a fact.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe statute of limitation runs not against evil deeds.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe quickest cure for a passionate longing is a cold woman.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThrough lapse of time the few claim the inheritance of the many.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe cause of truth will not triumph so long as it is intrusted to fools.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf the weakness of the present industrial system were realized it would\ncease to be dangerous.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSnakes eggs are hatched by the sun. Misers eggs--gold--by labor. Young\nsnakes hiss at their mother, misers at men.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe charitable heart hath an empty pocket.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe cry of the poor is an eternal remonstrance.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe ocean of hope springs from a single drop of sympathy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe old-time robber was the father of the new time financier.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nInjustice sleeps in a bed of roses which rests on a bed of thorns.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe lamb 'love' and the wolf 'hate' tarry not long in the same pen.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA feather from the wing of truth is of more weight than a mountain of\nlies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOnly the key sympathy can unlock the sacred chamber hidden in every\nheart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe bloodless wreath of love is stronger than a tyrant's chain. The one\nshall yet bind the world, the other be broken by a simple wish.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *","title":"Wise or Otherwise","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":9167}