Honor and fortune exist for him who always recognizes the neighborhood of the great, always feels himself in the presence of high causes.

This one fact the world hates; that the soul becomes; for that forever degrades the past, turns all riches to poverty, all reputation to a shame, confounds the saint with the rogue, shoves Jesus and Judas equally aside.

All the great ages have been ages of belief.

Fractures well cured make us more strong.

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.

We are the prisoners of ideas.

When it is dark enough, men see the stars.