For here if thou fail, Where can'st thou prevail? If you love not Your own land most, You'll find nothing lovely On a distant coast. If you love not The latest sunset, What is there in pictures Or old gems set? If no man should travel Till he had the means, There'd be little travelling For kings or for queens. The means, what are they? They are the wherewithal Great expenses to pay, Life got, and some to spare, Great works on hand, And freedom from care, Plenty of time well spent To use, Clothes paid for and no rent In your shoes, Something to eat And something to burn, And above all no need to return. Then they who come back, Say, have they not failed, Wherever they've ridden, Or steamed it, or sailed? All your grass hay'd, All your debts paid, All your wills made; Then you might as well have stay'd, For are you not dead, Only not buried? The way unto "to-day," The railroad to "here," They never'll grade that way Nor shorten it, I fear. There are plenty of depots All the world o'er, But not a single station At a man's door. If he would get near To the secret of things, He'll not have to hear When the engine bell rings. Exaggeration! was ever any virtue attributed to a man without exaggeration? was ever any vice, without infinite exaggeration? Do we not exaggerate ourselves to ourselves, or do we often recognize ourselves for the actual men we are? The lightning is an exaggeration of light. We live by exaggeration. Exaggerated history is poetry, and is truth referred to a new standard. To a small man every greater one is an exaggeration. No truth was ever expressed but with this sort of emphasis, so that for the time there was no other truth. The value of what is really valuable can never be exaggerated. You must speak loud to those who are hard of hearing; so you acquire a habit of speaking loud to those who are not. In order to appreciate any, even the humblest, man, you must not only understand, but you must first love him; and there never was such an exaggerator as love. Who are we? Are we not all of us great men? And yet what [are] we actually? Nothing, certainly, to speak of. By an immense exaggeration we appreciate our Greek poetry and philosophy, Egyptian ruins, our Shakespeares and Miltons, our liberty and Christianity. We give importance to this hour over all other hours. We do not live by justice, but [by grace.][445] * * * * * Love never perjures itself, nor is it mistaken. * * * * * He is not the great writer, who is afraid to let the world know that he ever committed an impropriety. Does it not know that all men are mortal? * * * * *