You may derive thoughts from others; your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.

Not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal.

Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid

What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the souls of all the writers that have bequeathed their labours to these Bodleians were reposing here as in some dormitory, or middle state. I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odor of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of the sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard.

By myself walking, To myself talking.