Write while the heat is in you.

. . . I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days. . . .

Tradition is a more interrupted and feebler memory.

Reform keeps many scores of newspapers in its service, but not one man.

The church is a sort of hospital for men's souls, and as full of quackery as the hospital for their bodies. Those who are taken into it live like pensioners in their Retreat or Sailors' Snug Harbor, where you may see a row of religious cripples sitting outside in sunny weather.

How many things there are concerning which we might well deliberate whether we had better know them.

What great interval is there between him who is caught in Africa and made a plantation slave of in the South, and him who is caught in New England and made a Unitarian minister of?