How, without clothes, could we possess the master organ, soul's seat and true pineal gland of the body social--I mean a purse?

The errors of a wise man are literally more instructive than the truths of a fool. The wise man travels in lofty, far-seeing regions; the fool in low-lying, high-fenced lanes; retracing the footsteps of the former, to discover where he diviated, whole provinces of the universe are laid open to us; in the path of the latter, granting even that he has not deviated at all, little is laid open to us but two wheel-ruts and two hedges.

A force as of madness in the hands of reason has done all that was ever done in the world.

After all manner of professors have done their best for us, the place we are to get knowledge is in books.

Thought is the parent of the deed.

Alas! we know that ideals can never be completely embodied in practice. Ideals must ever lie a great way off--and we will thankfully content ourselves with any not intolerable approximation thereto! Let no man, as Schiller says, too querulously "measure by a scale of perfection the meager product of reality" in this poor world of ours.

In the huge mass of evil as it rolls and swells, there is ever some good working toward deliverance and triumph.