When Friendships Are Real, They Are Not

Of Nature Itself Upon The Soul; The Sunrise, The Haze Of Autumn, The Winter Starlight Seem Interlocutors; The Prevailing Sense Is That Of An Exposition In Poetry; A High Discourse, The Voice Of The Speaker Seems To Breathe As Much From The Landscape As From His Own Breast; It Is Nature Communing With The Seer.

A Hero Is A Man Who Is Afraid To Run Away.

Truth Gathers Itself Spotless And Unhurt After All Our Surrenders And Concealments And Partisanship; Never Hurt By The Treachery Or Ruin Of Its Best Defenders, Whether Luther, Or William Penn, Or St. Paul.

Everything Runs To Excess; Every Good Quality Is Noxious If Unmixed.

Steam Is No Stronger Now Than It Was A Hundred Years Ago, But It Is Put To Better Use.