MAN ~

We are just so frivolous and skeptical.

Men hold themselves cheap and vile: and yet a man is a fagot of thunderbolts.

All the elements pour through his system: he is the flood of the flood, and fire of the fire; he feels the antipodes and the pole, as drops of his blood: they are the extension of his personality.

His duties are measured by that instrument he is, and a right and perfect man would be felt at the center of the Copernican system.

‘Tis curious that we only believe as deeply as we live.

We do not think heroes can exert any more awful power than that surface-play that amuses us.

A deep man believes in miracles, waits for them, beliefs in magic, believes that the orator will decompose his adversary; believes that the evil eye can wither, that the heart’s blessing can heal; that love can exalt talent; can overcome all odds.

From a great heart secret magnetisms flow incessantly to draw great events.

But we prize very humble utilities, a prudent husband, a good son, a voter, a citizen, and deprecate any romance of character; and perhaps reckon only his money value,—his intellect, his affection, as a sort of bill of exchange, easily convertible into fine chambers, pictures, music, and wine.