Commonsense is the wick of the candle.

Nature is an endless combination and repetition of a very few laws. She hums the old well-known air through innumerable variations.

The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.

Every day, the sun; and, after sunset, night and her stars. Ever the winds blow; ever the grass grows. Every day, men and women, conversing, beholding and beholden. The scholar is he of all men whom this spectacle most engages. He must settle its value in his mind. What is nature to him?

Expediency of literature, reason of literature, lawfulness of writing down a thought, is questioned; much is to say on both sides,and, while the fight waxes hot, thou, dearest scholar, stick to thy foolish task, add a line every hour, and between whiles add a line.

He then learns that in going down into the secrets of his own mind, he has descended into the secrets of all minds.

We do not want actions, but men; not a chemical drop of water, but rain; the spirit that sheds and showers actions, countless, endless actions.