Who could believe in the prophecies ... that the world would end this summer, while one milkweed with faith matured its seeds.

Let things alone; let them weigh what they will; let them soar or fall.

The improved means to the unimproved end.

O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it, for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment.

Let no one think that I do not love the old ministers. They were, probably, the best men in their generation, and they deserve that their biographies should fill the pages of the town histories. If I could but hear the "glad tidings" of which they tell, and which, perchance, they heard, I might write in a worthier strain than this.

Enemies publish themselves. They declare war. The friend never declares his love.

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