Considering the multitude of mortals that handle the pen in these days, and can mostly spell, and write without glaring violations of grammar, the question naturally arises: How is it, then, that no work proceeds from them, bearing any stamp of authenticity and permanence; of worth for more than one day?

The genuine essence of truth never dies.

True friends, like ivy and the wall Both stand together, and together fall.

Why tell me that a man is a fine speaker, if it is not the truth that he is speaking?

I grow daily to honor facts more and more, and theory less and less.

I've got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.

Fame, we may understand, is no sure test of merit, but only a probability of such: it is an accident, not a property, of a man; like light, it can give little or nothing, but at most may show what is given.