As there is no danger of our becoming, any of us, Mahometans (i.e. Muslim), I mean to say all the good of him I justly can.

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come.

Thirty millions, mostly fools.

Thought, true labor of any kind, highest virtue itself, is it not the daughter of Pain?

The word of Mohammad is a voice direct from nature's own heart - all else is wind in comparison.

Men worship the shows of great men; the most disbelieve that there is any reality of great men to worship.

Does not every true man feel that he is himself made higher by doing reverence to what is really above him?