You may rely on it that you have the best of me in my books, and that I am not worth seeing personally, the stuttering, blunderingclod-hopper that I am. Even poetry, you know, is in one sense an infinite brag and exaggeration. Not that I do not stand on all that I have written,--but what am I to the truth I feebly utter?

Still we live meanly like ants, though the fable tells us we were long ago changed into men.

Every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us.

If it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.

One cannot too soon forget his errors and misdemeanors for to dwell long upon them is to add to the offense, and repentance and sorrow can only be displaced by somewhat better, and which is as free and original as if they had not been.

The truth is, there is money buried everywhere, and you have only to go to work to find it.

We are armed with language adequate to describe each leaf of the filed, but not to describe human character.