Ignorance is the father of all fear.
It is hard to be finite upon an infinite subject, and all subjects are infinite.
At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It was a sharp, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor.
Nothing may help or heal While Amor incensed remembers wrong.
Nothing can lift the heart of man like manhood in a fellow man.
Where does any novelist pick up any character? For the most part, in town, to be sure.