The depth of our despair measures what capability and height of claim we have to hope.

Writing is a dreadful labor, yet not so dreadful as Idleness.

Does it ever give thee pause that men used to have a soul? Not by hearsay alone, or as a figure of speech, but as a thruth that they knew and acted upon. Verily it was another world then, but yet it is a pity we have lost the tidings of our souls. We shall have to go in search of them again or worse in all ways shall befall us.

Labor is life: from the inmost heart of the worker rises his God-given force, the sacred celestial life-essence breathed into him by Almighty God!

Beautiful it is, and a gleam from the same eternal pole-star visible amid the destinies of men, that all talent, all intellect, is in the first plane moral. What a world were this otherwise!

That there should one man die ignorant who had capacity for knowledge, this I call a tragedy.

Not what you possess but what you do with what you have, determines your true worth.