Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

We mortals cross the ocean of this world Each in his average cabin of a life; The bests not big, the worst yields elbowroom.

Once more on my adventure brave and new.

I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.

Ever judge of men by their professions. For though the bright moment of promising is but a moment, and cannot be prolonged, yet if sincere in its moment's extravagant goodness, why, trust it, and know the man by it, I say,- not by his performance; which is half the world's work, interfere as the world needs must with its accidents and circumstances: the profession was purely the man's own. I judge people by what they might be,- not are, nor will be.

Tis looking downward makes one dizzy.