Steam was till the other day the devil which we dreaded. Every pot made by any human potter or brazier had a hole in its cover, to let off the enemy, lest he should lift pot and roof and carry the house away.

We know that madness belongs to love,--what power to paint a vile object in hues of heaven.

The babe in arms is a channel through which the energies we call fate, love, and reason visibly stream.

God will not have his work made manifest by cowards

You shall not come nearer a man by getting into his house.

Intellect is void of affection and sees an object as it stands in the light of science, cool and disengaged. The intellect goes out of the individual, floats over its own personality, and regards it as a fact, and not as I and mine.

Our opinions of the world, are confessions of character.