Except a living man, there is nothing more wonderful than a book.

In the four hundred and thirteenth year of the Christian era, some three hundred miles above Alexandria, the young monk Philammon was sitting on the edge of a low range of inland cliffs, crested with drifting sand.

All but God is changing day by day.

Life is too short for mean anxieties.

Music has been called the speech of the angels; I will go farther and call it the speech of God Himself.

There will be no true freedom without virtue, no true science without religion, no true industry without the fear of God and love to your fellow citizens.

Give me something huge to fight, — and I should enjoy that — but why make me sweep the dust?