The stillness of the calm is awful. His voice begins to grow strange and portentous. He feels it in him like something swallowed too big for the esophagus. It keeps up a sort of involuntary interior humming in him, like a live beetle. His cranium is a dome full of reverberations. The hollows of his very bones are as whispering galleries. He is afraid to speak loud, lest he be stunned; like the man in the bass drum.

In our own hearts, we mold the whole world's hereafters; and in our own hearts we fashion our own gods.

To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain.

There never was a great man yet who spent all his life inland.

Charity, like poetry, should be cultivated, if only for its being graceful.

Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in productive subjects, grow the chapters.

Evil is the chronic malady of the universe, and checked in one place, breaks forth in another.