The lichen on the rocks is a rude and simple shield which beginning and imperfect Nature suspended there. Still hangs her wrinkledtrophy.

The book has never been written which is to be accepted without any allowance.

Sometimes we are inclined to class those who are once-and-a-half witted with the half-witted, because we appreciate only a third part of their wit.

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?

Measure your health by your sympathy with morning and Spring.

Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long while to make it short.

Our actual Friends are but distant relations of those to whom we are pledged.