When The Night Is Darkest,

How Casually And Unobservedly We Make All Our Most Valued Acquaintances.

Always Scorn Appearances And You Always May.

It Is Long Ere We Discover How Rich We Are. Our History, We Are Sure, Is Quite Tame: We Have Nothing To Write, Nothing To Infer. But Our Wiser Years Still Run Back To The Despised Recollections Of Childhood, And Always We Are Fishing Up Some Wonderful Article Out Of That Pond; Until, By And By, We Begin To Suspect That The Biography Of The One Foolish Person We Know Is, In Reality, Nothing Less Than The Miniature Paraphrase Of The Hundred Volumes Of The Universal History.

Man Is The Dwarf Of Himself.

Cunning Is Strength Withheld.