Every Man Is Grave Alone.

No Man Has Ever Had A Point Of Pride That Was Not Injurious To Him.

Self-reliance Is Its Aversion. It Loves Not Realities And Creators, But Names And Customs.

There Are No Fixtures In Nature. The Universe Is Fluid And Volatile. Permanence Is But A Word Of Degrees.

No Man Has A Right Perception Of Any Truth, Who Has Not Been Reacted On By It, So As To Be Ready To Be Its Martyr.

Classics Which At Home Are Drowsily Read Have A Strange Charm In A Country Inn, Or In The Transom Of A Merchant Brig.