To know, to get into the truth of anything, is ever a mystic art, of which the best logic's can but babble on the surface.

Great souls are always loyally submissive, reverent to what is over them: only small mean souls are otherwise.

Laissez-faire, supply and demand-one begins to be weary of all that. Leave all to egotism, to ravenous greed of money, of pleasure, of applause-it is the gospel of despair.

In the true Literary Man there is thus ever, acknowledged or not by the world, a sacredness: he is the light of the world; the world's Priest; -- guiding it, like a sacred Pillar of Fire, in its dark pilgrimage through the waste of Time.

Whose school-hours are all the days and nights of our existence.

Thought will not work except in silence.

The sincere alone can recognize sincerity.