Some maladies are rich and precious and only to be acquired by the right of inheritance or purchased with gold.
It is a little remarkable, that – though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends – an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public.
An unhappy gentleman, resolving to wed nothing short of perfection, keeps his heart and hand till both get so old and withered that no tolerable woman will accept them.
Just as there comes a warm sunbeam into every cottage window, so comes a lovebeam of God’s care and pity for every separate need.
Salt is white and pure – there is something holy in salt.
We do ourselves wrong, and too meanly estimate the holiness above us, when we deem that any act or enjoyment good in itself, is not good to do religiously.
Mankind are earthen jugs with spirits in them.
He whose genius appears deepest and truest excels his fellows in nothing save the knack of expression; he throws out occasionally a lucky hint at truths of which every human soul is profoundly though unutterably conscious.
Let us acknowledge it wiser, if not more sagacious to follow out one’s day-dream to its natural consummation, although if the vision has been worth the having, it is certain never to be consummated otherwise than by a failure.
Articulate words are a harsh clamor and dissonance. When man arrives at his highest perfection, he will again be dumb.
There is no greater bugbear than a strong willed relative in the circle of his own connections.
The trees reflected in the river – they are unconscious of a spiritual world so near to them. So are we.
I love my mother, but there has been, ever since my boyhood, a sort of coldness of intercourse between us, such as is apt to come between people of strong feelings.
Every young sculptor seems to think that he must give the world some specimen of indecorous womanhood, and call it Eve, Venus, a Nymph, or any name that may apologize for a lack of decent clothing.
Labor is the curse of the world, and nobody can meddle with it without becoming proportionately brutalized.
Echo is the voice of a reflection in a mirror.
A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.
My heart was a habitation large enough for many guests, but lonely and chill, and without a household fire. I longed to kindle one! It seemed not so wild a dream.
Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!
Earth has one angel less and heaven one more, since yesterday.