The masters painted for joy, and knew not that virtue had gone out of them. They could not paint the like in cold blood. The masters of English lyric wrote their songs so. It was a fine efflorescence of fine powers.

A great man scarcely knows how he dines, how he dresses; but without railing or precision, his living is natural and poetic.

Nature is not slow to equip us in the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere.

The most active lives have so much routine as to preclude progress almost equally with the most inactive.

A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer.

Government has come to be a trade, and is managed solely on commercial principles. A man plunges into politics to make his fortune, and only cares that the world shall last his days.

Prayer that craves a particular commodity—anything less than all good, is vicious. Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the highest point of view. It is the soliloquy of a beholding and jubilant soul. It is the spirit of God pronouncing his works good. But prayer as a means to effect a private end is theft and meanness. It supposes dualism and not unity in nature and consciousness. As soon as the man is at one with God, he will not beg.