The world is an old woman, and mistakes any gilt farthing for a gold coin; whereby being often cheated, she will thenceforth trust nothing but the common copper.

No man sees far; the most see no farther than their noses.

Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness.

Clear undeniable right, clear undeniable might: either of these once ascertained puts an end to battle. All battle is a confused experiment to ascertain one and both of these.

Wonder is the basis of worship.

He that can work is a born king of something.

He that will not work according to his faculty, let him perish according to his necessity: there is no law juster than that.

This world, after all our science and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, magical and more, to whosoever will think of it.

Does not every true man feel that he is himself made higher by doing reverence to what is really above him?

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?