Success Is A Very Hideous Thing. Its

There Are No Trifles In The Human Story, No Trifling Leaves On The Tree.

And, Moreover, When It Happens That Both Are Sincere And Good, Nothing Will Mix And Amalgamate More Easily Than An Old Priest And An Old Soldier. In Reality, They Are The Same Kind Of Man. One Has Devoted Himself To Country Upon Earth, The Other To His Country In Heaven; There Is No Other Difference.

The Smaller It Is The Heart, More Hatred Houses.

What Was More Needed By This Old Man Who Divided The Leisure Hours Of His Life, Where He Had So Little Leisure, Between Gardening In The Daytime, And Contemplation At Night? Was Not This Narrow Enclosure, With The Sky For A Background, Enough To Enable Him To Adore God In His Most Beautiful As Well As In His Most Sublime Works? Indeed, Is Not That All, And What More Can Be Desired? A Little Garden To Walk, And Immensity To Reflect Upon. At His Feet Something To Cultivate And Gather; Above His Head Something To Study And Meditate Upon: A Few Flowers On The Earth, And All The Stars In The Sky.

It Seemed To Be A Necessary Ritual That He Should Prepare Himself For Sleep By Meditating Under The Solemnity Of The Night Sky... A Mysterious Transaction Between The Infinity Of The Soul And The Infinity Of The Universe.