We learn words by rote, but not their meaning; that must be paid for with our life-blood, and printed in the subtle fibres of our nerves.

Our consiousness rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us anymore than without us: there have been many circulations of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud.

Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.

We all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or some new motive is born.