No mud can soil us but the mud we throw.

Making one object, in outward or inward nature, more holy to a single heart is reward enough for a life; for the more sympathies we gain or awaken for what is beautiful, by so much deeper will be our sympathy for that which is most beautiful,--the human soul!

Time is, after all, the greatest of poets; and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being the heirs of Fame.

He gives only the worthless gold who gives from a sense of duty.

Let us be of good cheer, however, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.

There is surely room for yet another schoolmaster when a score of seers advertise themselves in Boston newspapers.

Old events have modern meanings; only that survives of past history which finds kindred in all hearts and lives.