It is only the intellect that can be thoroughly and hideously wicked. It can forget everything in the attainment of its ends. The heart recoils; in its retired some drops of childhood's dew still linger, defying manhood's fiery noon.

It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century.

What a sense of security in an old book which Time has criticized for us!

It is the privilege of genius that life never grows common place, as it does for the rest of us.

Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime.

Take winter as you find him, and he turns out to be a thoroughly honest fellow; with no nonsense in him, which is a great comfort in the long-run.

The greatest homage we can pay to truth, is to use it.