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.

In summer we live out of doors, and have only impulses and feelings, which are all for action, and must wait commonly for the stillness and longer nights of autumn and winter before any thought will subside; we are sensible that behind the rustling leaves, and the stacks of grain, and the bare clusters of the grape, there is the field of a wholly new life, which no man has lived; that even this earth was made for more mysterious and nobler inhabitants than men and women. In the hues of October sunsets, we see the portals to other mansions than those which we occupy.

I never read a novel, they have so little real life and thought in them.

There must be some nerve and heroism in our love, as of a winter morning.

There is always a present and extant life, be it better or worse, which all combine to uphold.

I will not allow mere names to make distinctions for me, but still see men in herds for all them.

After all the field of battle possesses many advantages over the drawing-room. There at least is no room for pretension or excessive ceremony, no shaking of hands or rubbing of noses, which make one doubt your sincerity, but hearty as well as hard hand-play. It at least exhibits one of the faces of humanity, the former only a mask.