Each Book Has A Secret History Of

Undoubtedly We Render Our Consciences Callous By Evil Indulgences; But We Cannot Entirely Subdue That Still, Small Voice.

Our Yearnings Are Homesicknesses For Heaven; Our Sighings Are For God, Just As Children That Cry Themselves Asleep Away From Home, And Sob In Their Slumber, Know Not That They Sob For Their Parents. The Soul's Inarticulate Moanings Are The Affections Yearning For The Infinite, And Having No One To Tell Them What It Is That Ails Them.

A Man Without Self-restraint Is Like A Barrel Without Hoops, And Tumbles To Pieces.

Every Artist Dips His Brush In His Own Soul, And Paints His Own Nature Into His Pictures.

Flowers Have An Expression Of Countenance As Much As Men Or Animals. Some Seem To Smile; Some Have A Sad Expression; Some Are Pensive And Diffident; Others Are Plain, Honest And Upright, Like The Broad Faced Sunflower And The Hollyhock.