Our quaint metaphysical opinions, in an hour of anguish, are like playthings by the bedside of a child deathly sick.

A Falsehood is, in one sense, a dead thing; but too often it moves about, galvanized by self-will, and pushes the living out of their seats.

And they three passed over the white sands, between the rocks, silent as the shadows.

Men of genius are rarely much annoyed by the company of vulgar people.

He is the best physician who is the most ingenious inspirer of hope.

Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

All nature seems at work.