If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death.

I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.

Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.

The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.

Your death and my death are mainly of importance to ourselves. The black plumes will be stripped off our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt hearts close again, our graves grow level with the church-yard, and although we are away, the world wags on. It does not miss us; and those who are near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss us much either.

The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.

The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.