Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.

Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

How wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ of the soul. The intellect of man is enthroned visibly on his forehead and in his eye, and the heart of man is written on his countenance, but the soul, the soul reveals itself in the voice only.

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

Magnificent autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds; not like a hermit, clad in gray; but like a warrior with the stain of blood in his brazen mail.