All is finite in the present; and even that finite is infinite in it velocity of flight towards death. But in God there is nothing finite...Upon a night of earthquake he builds a thousand years of pleasant habitations for man. Upon the sorrow of an infant he raises oftentimes from human intellects glorious vintages that could not else have been.

The whole body of the arts and sciences composes one vast machinery for the irritation and development of the human intellect.

Even imperfection itself may have its ideal or perfect state.

The public is a bad guesser.

All men come into this world alone and leave it alone.

As is the inventor of murder, and the father of art, Cain must have been a man of first-rate genius.

Fierce sectarianism breeds fierce latitudinarianism.