The vulgar artist cannot paint a virtuous picture.

The gross, the bizarre, the sensitive, the delicate, all come out on the canvas and tell the story of his life.
Who would not choose to be a millionaire of deeds with a Lincoln, a Grant, a Florence Nightingale, a Childs; a millionaire of ideas with Emerson, with Lowell, with Shakespeare, with Wordsworth; a millionaire of statesmanship with a Gladstone, a Bright, a Sumner, a Washington?
Some men are rich in health, in constant cheerfulness, in a mercurial temperament which floats them over troubles and trials enough to sink a shipload of ordinary men.

Others are rich in disposition, family, and friends.

There are some men so amiable that everybody loves them; some so cheerful that they carry an atmosphere of jollity about them.

Some are rich in integrity and character.
"Who is the richest of men ?" asked Socrates.