One of the sublimest things in the world is plain truth.

Beside one deed of guilt, how blest is guiltless woe!

How little praise warms out of a man the good that is in him, as the sneer of contempt which he feels is unjust chill the ardor to excel.

The world thinks eccentricity in great things is genius, but in small things, only crazy.

It is the glorious doom of literature that the evil perishes and the good remains. Even when the original author of some healthy and useful truth is forgotten, the truth survives, transplanted to works more calculated to purify it from error, and perpetuate it to our benefit.

Debt is to man what the serpent is to the bird; its eye fascinates, its breath poisons, its coil crushes sinew and bone, its jaw is the pitiless grave.

In science, read, by preference, the newest works; in literature the oldest.