I am awaked almost every night by the panting of the locomotive. It interrupts my dreams. There is no sabbath.

We communicate like the burrows of foxes, in silence and darkness, under ground. We are undermined by faith and love.

Being is the great explainer.

Ancient history has an air of antiquity. It should be more modern. It is written as if the specator should be thinking of the backside of the picture on the wall, or as if the author expected that the dead would be his readers, and wished to detail to them their own experience.

Even the best things are not equal to their fame.

When our life ceases to be inward and private, conversation degenerates into mere gossip.

To preserve wild animals implies generally the creation of a forest for them to dwell in or resort to. So it is with man. A hundred years ago they sold bark in our streets peeled from our own woods. In the very aspect of those primitive and rugged trees there was, methinks, a tanning principle which hardened and consolidated the fibres of men's thoughts. Ah! already I shudder for these comparatively degenerate days of my native village, when you cannot collect a load of bark of good thickness, and we no longer produce tar and turpentine.