That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing.

If the devil take a less hateful shape to us than to our fathers, he is as busy with us as with them.

Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave?

[B]ut in literature, it should be remembered, a thing always becomes his at last who says it best, and thus makes it his own.

Talent is that which is in a man's power; genius is that in whose power a man is.

The intellect has only one failing, which, to be sure, is a very considerable one. It has no conscience.