The subject is said to have the property of making dull men eloquent.

One must be an inventor to read well.

The solitary knows the essence of the thought, the scholar in society only its fair face.

Health, south wind, books, old trees, a boat, a friend.

Though love repine, and reason chafe, There came a voice without reply,- "'Tis man's perdition to be safe, When for the truth he ought to die."

My son, a perfect little boy of five years and three months, had ended his earthly life. You can never sympathize with me; you can never know how much of me such a young child can take away. A few weeks ago I accounted myself a very rich man, and now the poorest of all.

Whence, then, this worship of the past? The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and authority of the soul.