The whole past is the procession of the present.

The highest ensign that men ever met and embraced under, the Cross itself, had no meaning save an accidental extrinsic one.

The outer passes away; the innermost is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

Intellect is the soul of man, the only immortal part of him.

May blessings be upon the head of Cadmus, the Phoenicians, or whoever it was that invented books.

When the oak is felled the whole forest echoes with it fall, but a hundred acorns are sown in silence by an unnoticed breeze.

A background of wrath, which can be stirred up to the murderous infernal pitch, does lie in every man.