The Monitor., 1885-07-31
CLEVELAN DIANA.
Sentences Gathered AT Random From
Miss Rose Elizabeth CIeyeIaBd's
New BOOK.

ne quailty OF ulVlnatlon Is the intel
leetual element of altruistic faith.
No secret of hydraulics could cause
dewdrop to hang upon a rose leaf in cube
] never knew good man or a good wo-
man who was not practically an optimist
The past is simply humanity 1t is thou
and !. a vast congregation of thous and rs.
An acorn in the mind is worth more than
an oak forest at the end of the tongue.
The noble soul would choose rather not
to be than not to be somebody in particu-
lar
SO fine an irony has history, that that
which makes the shame Of its wives makes
the glory of its kings.
Manners are made in the market where
they are sold, and their buying and selling
are mostly unconscious.
No gift can pass between human crea-
lures so divine as the gift of recognition,
for it touches upon the creative.
To be dramatic. and at the same time ac-
curate, is a rare combination. If the one
is gift the other is grace
One who has faith in the concrete is sure
to have it in the abstract; and the effect is
that of optimism in the world.
We can do no braver or better thing than
to bring our best thoughts to the everyday
market They will yield us usurious in
terest
Milton sublime audacity of faith aerates
the ponderous craft of his verse and keeps
it from sinking into the abyss of theologi-
cal pedantry.
Our lives are not laid out in vast vague
prairies. but in definite domestic door
yards, within which we are to exercise and
develop our faculties.
Herein is the significance of the saying
that history repeats itself. 1t does repeat
itself, because it repeats its factors-the
men and women who compose it.
With the attitude and utterance of
her spirit confronting me, cannot allow
her verse to be poetry. She is the racoa-
teur. not the rates. the scientist not the
seer.
The dullest mortal spirit must at times
grope restlessly and expectantly in the
outer darkness for something beyond: and
this something must exist will exist. in
true poem.
The mother makes the man, perhaps;
times the wife in her manufacture confirms
the making of the mother. sometimes coun-
teraets it,
The born poet has no agony in the de-
him the soothing balm which the utter
ance is to the reader. 1t is the weeping,
not the tear wept, that gives relief.
The humanity of each of us is like some
Musician, and laid down tenderly by Him
upon the seashore, where winds from every
quarter play continuously.
Each of us can 50 believe in humanity in
general as to contribute to that pressure
which constantly levers up the race; can
surround ourselves with an atmosphere
optimistic rather than the contrary.
Whether men admit it or not, faith in
ter humanity follow from our faith in God,
and if that faith be allowed its full growth
will each win their rightful rank
Reciprocity, constant and equal, among
maker of plans whose plans never fail in
the least .iot or title. He has reserved TO
Himself the power to give without receiv-
ing.
less flow of cause into effect, and of effect
into cause. There is nothing but which is
consequent. You and are but the conse-
quents of vast tangle of fantecedents in all
time before.
You come from one of George Eliot's
poems as from Turkish bath of latest
science and refinement. appreciative of BEN
eft, but so battered, beaten. and disjoint-
ed as to need repose before Won can be con-
scous of refreshment.
In these days of ebb and quicksand,
when agnosticism rears it's stone wall in
front of faith, and writes upon it in black
letters the end-all and the be-all of all know
ing. the unknowable, we have no need to
know where God is to confirm our faith in
Him.
True self-knowledge is never to be come
at by burrowing in the narrow limit of our
own individual thoughts, feelings, and ex-
perience. We must, in order to truly see
ourselves, stand before the great mirror
humanity, and, in its all-refiecting focus,
behold our own proper individuality.
An erroneous notion of the Middle
Ages.) \ tunnel OF time, one Thousand
years ago. through which humanity rum
bled blindly in an emigrant train, the last
skyrockets of the Roman empire flaring up
at one end, the first sunbeams of the Re
naissanee shining in at the other-and no
light between-the no-account period of
history.
What's in name , A rose by any other
name might smell as sweet; but lily, if
rechristened rose, would never diffuse the
roses odor, nor gain, in addition to its own
spotless perfections, the deep-hearted
sorcery of that enchanting, crumpled won
der, which we thrill in touching, as if it,
too. had nerves, and blood, and human
heart--a rose.