Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings.

We live in a system of approximations. Every end is prospective of some other end, which is also temporary; a round and final success nowhere. We are encamped in nature, not domesticated.

If a man lose his balance, and immerse himself in any trades or pleasures for their own sake, he may be a good wheel or pin, but he is not a cultivated man.

If the single man plant himself indomitably on his instincts, and there abide, the huge world will come round to him.

Friendship buys friendship.

Commerce is of trivial import; love, faith, truth of character, the aspiration of man, these are sacred.

The terrors of the child are quite reasonable, and add to his loveliness; for his utter ignorance and weakness, and his enchanting indignation on such a small basis of capital compel every bystander to take his part.