We all sorely complain of the shortness of time, and yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives are either spent in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them.

There is no genius without a mixture of madness.

The mind is never right but when it is at peace within itself.

Set aside a certain number of days, during which you shall be content with the scantiest and cheapest fare, with course and rough dress, saying to yourself the while: " Is this the condition that I feared?"

Our Creator shall continue to dwell above the sky, and that is where those on earth will end their thanksgiving.

Retirement without literary amusements is death itself, and a living tomb.

Eternal law has arranged nothing better than this, that it has given us one way in to life, but many ways out.