Life would be a perpetual flea hunt if a man were obliged to run down all the innuendoes, inveracities, and insinuations and misrepresentations which are uttered against him.
HENRY WARD BEECHERIf a man can have only one kind of sense, let him have common sense. If he has that and uncommon sense too, he is not far from genius.
More Henry Ward Beecher Quotes
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Young love is a flame; very pretty, often very hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. The love of the older and disciplined heart is as coals, deep-burning, unquenchable.
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Of all the music that reached farthest into heaven, it is the beating of a loving heart.
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Do not be afraid of defeat. You are never so near victory as when you are defeated in a good cause.
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That is true culture which helps us to work for the social betterment of all.
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A Christian is nothing but a sinful man who has put himself to school for Christ for the honest purpose of becoming better.
HENRY WARD BEECHER -
The beginning is the promise of the end.
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I think you might dispense with half your doctors if you would only consult Dr. Sun more.
HENRY WARD BEECHER -
A man who does not know how to be angry, does not know how to be good. Now and then a man should be shaken to the core with indignation over things evil.
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The advertisements in a newspaper are more full knowledge in respect to what is going on in a state or community than the editorial columns are.
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A world without a Sabbath would be like a man without a smile, like summer without flowers, and like a homestead without a garden. It is the most joyous day of the week.
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Nothing dies so hard, or rallies so often as intolerance.
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The art of being happy lies in the power of extracting happiness from common things.
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Interest works night and day in fair weather and in foul. It gnaws at a man’s substance with invisible teeth.
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It is not work that kills men; it is worry. Work is healthy; you can hard put more upon a man than he can bear. Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not the revolution that destroys the machinery, but the friction.
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We let our blessings get mouldy, and then call them curses.
HENRY WARD BEECHER






