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

Every ship is a romantic object, except that we sail in. Embark, and the romance quits our vessel, and hangs on every other sail in the horizon.

These times of ours are series and full of calamity, but all times are essentially alike. As soon as there is life there is danger.

There is hope in extravagance, there is none in routine.

Intellectual tasting of life will not supersede muscular activity.

Conversation in society is found to be on a platform so low as to exclude science, the saint, and the poet.

Solitude is naught and society is naught. Alternate them and the good of each is seen.