There is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass. Commit a crime, and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge and fox and squirrel and mole.

The soul is not born; it does not die; it was not produced from anyone… Unborn, eternal, it is not slain, though the body is slain.

The book of nature is the book of fate. She turns the gigantic pages, leaf after leaf never returning one.

The rich mind lies in the sun and sleeps, and is Nature.

Perception is a mirror not a fact. And what I look on is my state of mind, reflected outward.

Democracy is morose, and runs to anarchy.

My own mind is the direct revelation which I have from God and far least liable to mistake in telling his will of any revelation.