There is a great discovery still to be made in literature, that of paying literary men by the quantity they do not write.

Men seldom, or rather never for a length of time and deliberately, rebel against anything that does not deserve rebelling against.

No amount of ability is of the slightest avail without honor.

The lies (Western slander) which well-meaning zeal has heaped round this man (Muhammad) are disgraceful to ourselves only.

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.

Let him who would move and convince others, be first moved and convinced himself.

Is there no God, then, but at best an absentee God, sitting idle, ever since the first Sabbath, at the outside of his Universe?