In life, therefore, it is that which experiences cut or furrow in the soul.

A baby has no character.

Its life is like a piece of white paper, with nothing yet written upon it; or it is like a smooth marble tablet, on which, as yet, the sculptor has cut nothing; or the canvas, waiting for the painter's colors.

Character is formed as the years go on.

It is the writing,--the song, the story, put upon the paper.