Little other than a red tape Talking-machine, and unhappy Bag of Parliamentary Eloquence.

The depth of our despair measures what capability and height of claim we have to hope.

What are your historical Facts; still more your biographical? Wilt thou know a man by stringing-together beadrolls of what thou namest Facts?

Show me the person you honor, for I know better by that the kind of person you are. For you show me what your idea of humanity is.

The illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are not: this is forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb, for we have no word to speak about it.

If time is precious, no book that will not improve by repeated reading deserves to be read at all.

Old age is not a matter for sorrow. It is matter for thanks if we have left our work done behind us.

The outer passes away; the innermost is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

It is a strange trade that of advocacy. Your intellect, your highest heavenly gift is hung up in the shop window like a loaded pistol for sale.

Even in the meanest sorts of labor, the whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real harmony the instant he sets himself to work.