Spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the god of sots and cowards, and is the subject of all comedy. It is nature's joke, and therefore literature's. True prudence limits this sensualism by admitting the knowledge of an internal and real world.

These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world.

There is more difference in the quality of our pleasures than in the amount.

Every word we speak is million-faced or convertible to an indefinite number of applications. If it were not so we could read no book. Your remark would only fit your case, not mine.

Concentration is the secret of srength.

This valley is the only place that comes up to the brag about it, and exceeds it.

There is ever a slight suspicion of the burlesque about earnest good men.