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I recollect once standing in front of a bit of marble carved by Powers, a Vermonter, who had a matchless, instinctive love of art and perception of beauty. I said to an Italian standing with me, “Well, now, that seems to me to be perfection.” The answer was, “To be perfection”—shrugging his shoulders—“why, sir, that reminds you of Phidias!” as if to remind you of that Greek was a greater compliment than to be perfection.—Wendell Phillips.
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COMPLIMENTS, SPARING OF
The first time I ever stood in the pulpit to preach was in the meeting-house of the ancient Connecticut town where I was brought up. That was a great day for our folks and all my old neighbors, you may depend. After benediction, when I passed out into the vestibule, I was the recipient there of many congratulatory expressions. Among my friends in the crowd was an aged deacon, a man in whom survived, to a rather remarkable degree, the original New England Puritan type, who had known me from the cradle, and to whom the elevation I had reached was as gratifying as it could possibly be to anybody. But when he saw the smile of favor focused on me there, and me, I dare say, appearing to bask somewhat in it, the dear old man took alarm. He was apprehensive of the consequences to that youngster. And so, taking me by the hand and wrestling down his natural feelings—he was ready to cry for joy—he said: “Well, Joseph, I hope you’ll live to preach a great deal better than that!”—Joseph H. Twitchell.
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Compositions Compared—See [Education Not Vicarious].
COMPREHENSIVENESS IN EDUCATION
“What are these boys studying Latin for?” said an English visitor at a manual-training school as he looked in upon a class reading Cæsar.