Some of the sweetest hours in life, in retrospect will be found to have been spent with books.

The artists must be sacrificed to their art. Like the bees, they must put their lives into the sting they give.

When I behold a rich landscape, it is less to my purpose to recite correctly the order and superposition of the strata, than to know why all thought of multitude is lost in a tranquil sense of unity.

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.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.

You cannot make a cheap palace.

Speak your latent conviction. . . Else tomorrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another.