Time is a blooming field: nature is ever teeming with life: and all is seed, and all is fruit.

A noble soul spreads even over a face in which the architectonic beauty is wanting an irresistible grace, and a often even triumphs over the natural disfavor.

Secrecy is for the happy,--misery, hopeless misery, needs no veil; under a thousand suns it dares act openly.

There is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.

Anyone taken as an individual is tolerably sensible and reasonable - as a member of a crowd, he at once becomes a blockhead.

Ever building, building to the clouds, still building higher, and never reflecting that the poor narrow basis cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.

Only the soldier is a free man, because he can look death in the face.