eedom, of seeing in the horizon of his
future the perpetual star of hope. He preserved his individuality and
his self-respect. He knew and mingled with men of every kind; and,
after all, men are the best books. He became acquainted with the
ambitions and hopes of the heart, the means used to accomplish ends,
the springs of action and the seeds of thought. He was familiar with
nature, with actual things, with common facts. He loved and
appreciated the poem of the year, the drama of the seasons.

In a new country, a man must possess at least three virtues--honesty,
courage and generosity. In cultivated society, cultivation is often
more important than soil. A well executed counterfeit passes more
readily than a blurred genuine. It is necessary only to observe the
unwritten laws of society--to be honest enough to keep out of prison,
and generous enough to subscribe in public--where the subscription can
be defended as an investment. In a new country, character is
essential; in the old, reputation is sufficient. In the new, they find
what a man really is; in the old, he generally passes for what he
resembles. People separated only by distance are much nearer together
than those divided by the walls of caste.

It is no advantage to live in a great city, where poverty degrades and
failure brings despair. The fields are lovelier than paved streets,
and the great forests than walls of brick. Oaks and elms are more
poetic than steeples and chimneys. In the country is the idea of home.
There you see the rising and setting sun; you become acquainted with
the stars and clouds. The constellations are your friends. You hear
the rain on the roof and listen to the rhythmic sighing of the winds.
You are thrilled by the resurrection called Spring, touched and
saddened by Autumn, the grace and poetry of death. Every field is a
picture, a landscape; every landscape, a poem; every flower, a tender
thought; and every forest, a fairy-land. In the country you preserve
your identity--your personality. There you are an aggregation of
atoms, but in the city you are only an atom of an aggregation.

Lincoln never finished his education. To the night of his death he
was a pupil, a learner, an inquirer, a seeker after knowledge. You
have no idea how many men are spoiled by what is called education. For
the most part, colleges are places where pebbles are polished and
diamonds are dimmed. If Shakespeare had graduated at Oxford, he might
have been a