There is not a piece of science, but its flank may be turned tomorrow.

The essence of age is intellect. Wherever that appears, we call it old.

The April winds are magical, And thrill our tuneful frames; The garden-walks are passional To bachelors and dames.

For it is only the finite that has wrought and suffered; the infinite lies stretched in smiling repose.

a good reader makes a good book

An expense of ends to means is fate;Morganization tyrannizing over character. The menagerie, or forms and powers of the spine, is a book of fate: the bill of the bird, the skull of the snake, determines tyrannically its limits.

Tis good-will makes intelligence.