Happy season of virtuous youth, when shame is still an impassable barrier, and the sacred air-cities of hope have not shrunk into the mean clay hamlets of reality; and man, by his nature, is yet infinite and free.

A witty statesman said, you might prove anything by figures.

No person was every rightly understood until they had been first regarded with a certain feeling, not of tolerance, but of sympathy.

Affectation is the product of falsehood.

There is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works: in Idleness alone is there perpetual despair.

Rightly viewed no meanest object is insignificant; all objects are as windows through which the philosophic eye looks into infinitude itself.

History is the essence of innumerable biographies.