Pain is life - the sharper, the more evidence of life.

Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?

What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn dullness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old sundials! It stood as the garden god of Christian gardens. Why is it almost everywhere vanished? If its business-use be superseded by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance.

As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

I am determined that my children shall be brought up in their father's religion, if they can find out what it is.

I hate a man who swallows [his food], affecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters.