My whinstone house my castle is, I have my own four walls.

The greatest mistake is to imagine that we never err.

The graceful minuet-dance of fancy must give place to the toilsome, thorny pilgrimage of understanding. On the transition from the age of romance to that of science.

Every man has a coward and hero in his soul.

There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works: in idleness alone there is perpetual despair.

You can make even a parrot into a learned political economist - all he must learn are the two words "supply" and "demand."

Is man’s civilization only a wrappage, through which the savage nature of him can still burst, infernal as ever?