Let not the author eat up the man, so that he shall be all balcony and no house.

War disorganizes, but it is to reorganize.

The soul raised over passion beholds identity and eternal causation, perceives the self-existance of Truth and Right, and calms itself with knowing that all things go well.

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.

Our books approach very slowly the things we most wish to know.

Besides the general infusion of wit to heighten civility, the direct splendor of intellectual power is ever welcome in fine society, as the costliest addition to its rule and its credit.

Every violation of truth is not only a sort of suicide in the liar, but is a stab at the health of human society.