Struck dead by an angel of God! Yet the angel must hang!

At length I fell asleep, with the volume in my hand; and never slept so sound before

For small erections may be finished by their first architects; grand ones, true ones, ever leave the copestone to posterity. God keep me from ever completing anything. This whole book is but a draught—nay, but the draught of a draught. Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, and Patience!

Toil is man's allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that's more than either, the grief and sin of idleness.

Prayer draws us near to our own souls.

Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it, and in everything imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic.

Give me a condor's quill! Give me Vesuvius crater for an inkstand!