Pride is the distorter of souls; cheerfulness the helper; love the beautifier; sorrow the redeemer.
If I ever had the heroic strain, it has receded beyond my own perception; and like an athlete out of practice, I have to "brace" before doing that which is right, in defiance of inclination.
"The pure in heart shall see God,"—severe and lovely touchstone for mankind.
I saw once two sisters, the younger resembling the other as the translation of a poem does its original, moving by the same laws of beauty, yet inevitably lacking something of the earlier grace and flavor.
Twenty-third May, 1881. Hawthorne buried seventeen years ago to-day. "Who henceforth shall sing to thy pipe, O thrice-lamented? Who shall set mouth to thy reeds?"