Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.

Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.

Antiquity! thou wondrous charm, what art thou? that being nothing art everything? When thou wert, thou wert not antiquity - then thou wert nothing, but hadst a remoter antiquity, as thou calledst it, to look back to with blind veneration; thou thyself being to thyself flat, jejune, modern! What mystery lurks in this retroversion? or what half Januses are we, that cannot look forward with the same idolatry with which we for ever revert! The mighty future is as nothing, being everything! the past is everything, being nothing!

I allow no hot-beds in the gardens of Parnassus.

I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.

How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?

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