We grow gray in our spirit long before we grow gray in our hair.

New Year's Day is every man's birthday.

Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?

For God's sake (I never was more serious) don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print.

Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.

A garden was the primitive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.

A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.