The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines himself within ancient limits.

Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their works.

The fiend in his own shape is less hideous than when he rages in the breast of men.

And there I sat, long long ago, waiting for the world to know me.

No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.

We are but shadows: we are, not endowed with real life, and all that seems most real about us is but the thinnest substance of a dream,--till the heart be touched. That touch creates us--then we begin to be--thereby we are beings of reality and inheritors of eternity.

The breath of peace was fanning her glorious brow, her head was bowed a very little forward, and a tress, escaping from its bonds, fell by the side of her pure white temple, and close to her just opened lips; it hung there motionless! no breath disturbed its repose! She slept as an angel might sleep, having accomplished the mission of her God.