A sleeping child gives me the impression of a traveler in a very far country.

With most men, scarce a link of memory holds yesterday and to-day together.

The vulgar call good fortune that which really is produced by the calculations of genius.

The Indian who was laid under a curse, that the wind should not blow on him, nor water flow to him, nor fire burn him, is a type of us all. The dearest events are summer-rain, and we the Para coats that shed every drop. Nothing is left us now but death. We look to that with a grim satisfaction, saying, there at least is reality that will not dodge us.

Women, as most susceptible, are the best index of the coming hour.

I look on that man as happy, who, when there is question of success, looks into his work for a reply.

As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds a disease of the intellect.