There are portraits painted by them which carry a whole life-history concentrated into one moment." "But they," said Stangrave, "are the portraits of men such as they saw around them; natures who were strong for good and evil, who were not ashamed to show their strength.

Where will a painter find such among the poor, thin, unable mortals who come to him to buy immortality at a hundred and fifty guineas apiece, after having spent their lives in religiously rubbing off their angles against each other, and forming their characters, as you form shot, by shaking them together in a bag till they have polished each other into dullest uniformity ?" "It's very true," said Scoutbush, who suffered much at times from a certain wild Irish vein, which stirred him up to kick over the traces.
"People are horribly like each other; and if a poor fellow is bored, and tries to do anything spicy or original, he has half-a-dozen people pooh-poohing him down on the score of bad taste." "Men can be just as original now as ever," said La Signora, "if they had but the courage, even the insight.

Heroic souls in old times had no more opportunities than we have: but they used them.

There were daring deeds to be done then--are there none now?
Sacrifices to be made--are there none now?
Wrongs to be redressed--are there none now?
Let any one set his heart, in these days, to do what is right, and nothing else; and it will not be long ere his brow is stamped with all that goes to make up the heroical expression--with noble indignation, noble self-restraint, great hopes, great sorrows; perhaps, even, with the print of the martyr's crown of thorns." She looked at Stangrave as she spoke, with an expression which Scoutbush tried in vain to read.

The American made no answer, and seemed to hang his head awhile.