When among the graves of thy fellows, walk with circumspection; thine own is open at thy feet.
As the physiognomist takes his own face as the highest type and standard, so the critic's theories are imposed by his own limitations.
"Heaven lies about us in our infancy," and our neighbors take up the tale as we mature.
"My laws," she said, "are of myself a part:
I read them by examining my heart."
"True," he replied; "like those to Moses known,
Thine also are engraven upon stone."
Love is a distracted attention: from contemplation of one's self one turns to consider one's dream.
"Halt!—who goes there?" "Death." "Advance, Death, and give the countersign." "How needless! I care not to enter thy camp tonight. Thou shalt enter mine." "What! I a deserter?" "Nay, a great soldier. Thou shalt overcome all the enemies of mankind." "Who are they?" "Life and the Fear of Death."
The palmist looks at the wrinkles made by closing the hand and says they signify character. The philosopher reads character by what the hand most loves to close upon.
Ah, woe is his, with length of living cursed,
Who, nearing second childhood, had no first.
Behind, no glimmer, and before no ray—
A night at either end of his dark day.
A noble enthusiasm in praise of Woman is not incompatible with a spirited zeal in defamation of women.
The money-getter who pleads his love of work has a lame defense, for love of work at money-getting is a lower taste than love of money.