A painter, desiring to paint a picture of Innocence, found a beautiful boy playing at the side of a stream, who became his model. He painted him kneeling, with his hands clasped in prayer. The picture was prized as a very beautiful one. Years passed away, and the artist became an old man. He had often thought of painting a counterpart, the picture of guilt, as a companion to the other; and at last he executed it. He went to a neighboring prison, and there selected the most degraded and repulsive man he could find. His body and eye were wasted; vice was visible in his very face. But what was the artist's surprise when, on questioning the man as to his history, he found that it was he who, as a lovely boy, had kneeled for him as the model of Innocence! Evil habits had gradually changed him, not only in heart and mind, but in face and form.
Old habits are hard to break; new habits are hard to make.
Taste may change; our inclinations never change.
Habits are soon assumed—acquired—but when we strive to strip them off,—if of long standing—'tis being flayed alive!
The hands are, by the very instincts of humanity, raised in prayer; clasped in affection; wrung in despair; pressed on the forehead when the soul is "perplexed in the extreme;" drawn inward, to invite; thrust forth objectively, to repel; the fingers point to indicate, and are snapped in disdain; the palm is laid upon the heart, in invocation of subdued feeling, and on the brow of the compassioned in benediction. The expressive capacity of the hands was never more strikingly displayed than in the orisons (prayer) of the deaf and dumb. Their teacher stood with closed eyes, and addressing the Deity by those signs made with the fingers which constitute a language for the speechless. Around him were grouped more than a hundred mutes, following with reverent glances every motion. It was a visible, but not an audible, worship.
A dispute arose among three ladies as to which had the most beautiful hands. One sat by a stream, and dipped her hand into the water and held it up; another plucked strawberries until the ends of her fingers were pink; and a third gathered violets until her hands were fragrant. An old, haggard woman, passing by, asked, "Who will give me a gift, for I am poor?" all three denied her; but another who sat near, unwashed in the stream, unstained with fruit, unadorned with flowers or perfume, gave her a little gift, and satisfied the poor woman. Then the woman asked them what was the subject of their dispute; and they told her, and lifted up before her their beautiful hands. "Beautiful indeed!" she exclaimed, as she saw them. But when they asked her which was the most beautiful, she said: "It is not the hand that is washed clean in the brook; it is not the hand that is coloured with crimson tints; it is not the hand that is perfumed with fragrant flowers; but the hand that gives to the poor, that is the most beautiful."
Happiness consists in being perfectly satisfied with what we have got, and with what we haven't got.
Happiness consists not in possessing much, but in being content with what we possess. He who wants little, always has enough.
A cottage will hold as much happiness as would stock a palace.
With "gentleness" his own character, "comfort" in his house, and "good temper" in his wife, the earthly felicity of man may be said to be complete.
We are happy in this world just in proportion as we make others happy.
I think you the happiest couple in the world; for you are not only happy in one another, but happy in yourselves, and by yourselves.
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence.
To rejoice in the happiness of others is to make it our own; to produce it, is to make it more than our own. There is happiness in the very wish to make others happy.
Unmixed happiness is not to be found in this world.
Hatred always hurts the hater most of all.
It is the nature of the human disposition to hate him whom you have injured.
I am almost frozen by the distance you are from me.
If a man makes me keep my distance, the comfort is, he keeps his at the same time.
Health is rightly appreciated only when we are sick.
A man too busy to take care of his health is like a mechanic too busy to take care of his tools.
It is better to have less wealth and more health.
Health is so necessary to all duties, as well as pleasures of life, that the crime of squandering it is equal to the folly.
The only way for a rich man to be healthy is, by exercise and abstinence, to live as if he were poor.
An innocent heart suspects no guile.
Dr. Mitchell of Philadelphia, in lecturing to his pupils upon the diseases of the heart, narrated an anecdote to prove that the expression "broken heart" was not merely figurative. On one occasion, in the early period of his life, he accompanied, as surgeon, a packet that sailed from Liverpool to one of the American ports. The captain frequently conversed with him respecting a lady who had promised to become his bride on his return from that voyage. Upon this subject he evinced great warmth of feeling, and showed Dr. Mitchell some costly jewels, ornaments, etc., which he intended to present as bridal presents. On reaching his destination, he was abruptly informed that the lady had married some one else. Instantly the captain was observed to clap his hand to his breast, and fall heavily to the ground. He was taken up, and conveyed to his cabin on board the vessel. Dr. Mitchell was immediately summoned; but, before he reached the poor captain, he was dead. A postmortem examination revealed the cause of his unfortunate disease. His heart was found literally torn in twain! The tremendous propulsion of blood, consequent upon such a violent nervous shock, forced the powerful muscle tissues asunder, and life was at an end. The heart was broken.
Every heart has its secret sorrow, which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Some men's hearts are as great as the world, and still have no room in them to hold the memory of a wrong.
How small is the human heart, and yet even there, God enters in.
The Bitterness of Estrangement.—To be estranged from one whom we have tenderly and constantly loved, is one of the bitterest trials the heart can ever know.
There is no place where weeds do not grow, and there is no heart where errors are not to be found.
We open the hearts of others when we open our own.
Earth hath nothing more tender than a woman's heart, when it is the abode of piety.
The All-Seeing Eye, whom the sun, moon and stars obey, and under whose watchful care even comets perform their stupendous revolutions—pervades the inmost recesses of the human heart, and will reward us according to our merits.
There's many a good bit o' work done with a sad heart.
The heart is a small thing, but desireth great matters. It is not sufficient for a kite's (bird of the hawk kind) dinner, yet the whole world is not sufficient for it.
Men, as well as women, are much oftener led by their hearts than by their understandings; indeed nine times in ten it is so.
Many a man who prides himself on doing a cash business, regards his debts to Heaven with indifference.
"Of the positive joys of heaven we can form no conception; but its negative delights form a sufficiently attractive picture,—no pain; no thirst; no hunger; no horror of the past; no fear of the future; no failure of mental capacity; no intellectual deficiency; no morbid imaginations; no follies; no stupidities; but above all, no insulted feelings; no wounded affections; no despised love or unrequited regard; no hate, envy, jealousy, or indignation of or at others; no falsehood, dishonesty, dissimulation, hypocrisy, grief or remorse. In a word," said Professor Wilson, "to end where I began, no sin and no suffering."
A beautiful reply is recorded of a peasant, whose master was displaying to him the grandeur of his estates. Farms, houses, and forests were pointed out in succession, on every hand, as the property of the rich proprietor, who summed up finally by saying, "In short, all that you can see, in every direction, belongs to me." The poor man looked thoughtful for a moment; then, pointing up to heaven, solemnly replied, "And is that, also, thine?"
It is not enough to help an erring brother out of the mire,—we must help to get him upon a rock.
History is little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.
My precept to all who build is, that the owner should be an ornament to the house, and not the house to the owner.
Having offered a prize for the best definition of "Home," London Tit-Bits recently received more than five thousand answers. Among those which were adjudged the best were the definitions as follows:
A world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in.
Home is the blossom of which heaven is the fruit.
The best place for a married man after business hours.
Home is the coziest, kindliest, sweetest place in all the world; the scene of our purest earthly joys, and deepest sorrows.
The place where the great are sometimes small, and the small often great.
The father's kingdom, the children's paradise, the mother's world.
The ornaments of a home are the friends who frequent it.
God hath often a great share in a little house, and but a little share in a great one.
Home is the grandest of all institutions.
There's little pleasure in the house when our gudeman's awa'.
How many fine, well furnished and pretentious houses we now see around us, occupied and owned by successful people, in which there is hardly a market-basket full of books! Evidently showing that the material is of more importance than the intellectual.
We neglect the things which are placed before our eyes, and regardless of what is within our reach, we pursue whatever is remote. This is frequently and properly applied to the rage for visiting foreign countries, in those who are absolutely unacquainted with their own.
A man without a home is like a bird without a nest.
Many a home is nothing but a furnished house.
Travel is instructive and pleasant, but after all there is nothing so enjoyable as the independence and the luxury of one's own home. Travel is pleasant, but home is delightful!
Without hearts, there is no home.
A man unconnected is at home everywhere; unless he may be said to be at home nowhere.
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
It is a great happiness, if after being absent from home for a time you find no troubles awaiting your return.
Filling a house with bargains is apt to keep a couple from owning the house in which they place them.
This is the true nature of home—it is the place of Peace; the shelter not only from all injury, but from all terror, doubt and division. In so far as it is not this, it is not home; so far as the anxieties of the outer life penetrate into it * * * it ceases to be home; it is then only a part of that outer world which you have roofed over and lighted fire in.