The outward is only the outside of that which is within. Men are not concealed under habits, but are revealed by them; they are their true clothes.

Nature would not appear so rich, the profusion so rich, if we knew a use for everything.

But men labor under a mistake. The better part of the man is soon plowed into the soil for compost.

Since you are my readers, and I have not been much of a traveler, I will not talk about people a thousand miles off, but come as near home as I can. As the time is short, I will leave out all the flattery, and retain all the criticism.

Birds never sing in caves.

Should not every apartment in which man dwells be lofty enough to create some obscurity overhead, where flickering shadows may play at evening about the rafters?

It will always be found that one flourishing institution exists and battens on another mouldering one. The Present itself is parasitic to this extent.