The religion of one age is the literary entertainment of the next.

We do not count a man's years until he has nothing else to count.

Sleep lingers all our lifetime about our eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree.

Every day, the sun; and, after sunset, night and her stars. Ever the winds blow; ever the grass grows. Every day, men and women, conversing, beholding and beholden. The scholar is he of all men whom this spectacle most engages. He must settle its value in his mind. What is nature to him?

For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet?

What is man born for but to be a Reformer, a Remaker of what man has made? A renouncer of lies; a restorer of truth and good? Imitating that great Nature which embossoms us all, and which sleeps no moment on an old past, but every hour repairs herself, yielding us every morning a new day, with every breath a new life?

He, who loves the bristle of bayonets, only sees in their glitter what beforehand he feels in his hand.