No man's thoughts are new, but the style of their expression is the never-failing novelty which cheers and refreshes men. If we were to answer the question, whether the mass of men, as we know them, talk as the standard authors and reviewers write, or rather as this man writes, we should say that he alone begins to write their language at all.

It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live.

The very thrills of genius are disorganizing. The body is never quite acclimated to its atmosphere, but how often, succumbs and goes into a decline.

As I love nature, as I love singing birds, and gleaming stubble, and flowing rivers, and morning and evening, and summer and winter, I love thee, my Friend.

Surely the writer is to address a world of laborers, and such therefore must be his own discipline.

Nature refuses to sympathize with our sorrow. She seems not to have provided for, but by a thousand contrivances against it.

Concord's little arch does not span all our fate, nor is what transpires under it law for the universe.