The nunneries of silent nooks, the murmured longing of the wood.

Good heavens, of what un costly material is our earthly happiness composed... if we only knew it. What incomes have we not had from a flower, and how unfailing are the dividends of the seasons.

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.

Fortune is the rod of the weak, and the staff of the brave.

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

No man can produce great things who is not thoroughly sincere in dealing with himself.

With every step of the recent traveler our inheritance of the wonderful is diminished. Those beautiful pictured notes of the possible are redeemed at a ruinous discount in the hard coin of the actual.