To be able to discern that what is true is true, and that what is false is false,--this is the mark and character of intelligence.

Behind us, as we go, all things assume pleasing forms, as clouds do far off. Not only things familiar and stale, but even the tragic and terrible, are comely, as they take their place in the pictures of memory.

The mob is man voluntarily descending to the nature of the beast.

Go, speed the stars of Thought On to their shining goals; - The sower scatters broad his seed, The wheat thou strew'st be souls.

One man's justice is another's injustice; one man's beauty another's ugliness; one man's wisdom anpther's folly.

How silent, how spacious, what room for all, yet without place to insert an atom--in graceful succession, in equal fullness, in balanced beauty, the dance of the hours goes forward still. Like an odor of incense, like a strain of music, like a sleep, it is inexact and boundless. It will not be dissected, nor unraveled, nor shown.

Private, accidental, confidential conversation breeds thought. Clubs produce oftener words.