A cultivated man, wise to know and bold to perform, is the end to which nature works.
Man is physical as well as metaphysical, a thing of shreds and patches, borrowed unequally from good and bad ancestors, and a misfit from the start.
The Englishman who has lost his fortune is said to have died of a broken heart.
A scholar is a man with his inconvenience, that, when you ask him his opinion of any matter, he must go home and look up his manuscripts to know.
Every reform was once a private opinion, and when it shall be a private opinion again, it will solve the problem of the age.
Nature is no spendthrift, but takes the shortest way to her ends.
Is there a difference? Yes. We are in harmony with nature, but never at peace.
The wise man always throws himself on the side of his assailants. It is more his interest than it is theirs to find his weak point.
It is not the irregular hours or irregular diet that makes the romantic life.
The sanity of society is a balance of a thousand insanity's.
Every man is an infinitely repelling orb, and holds his individual being on that condition.
The most active lives have so much routine as to preclude progress almost equally with the most inactive.
Who does not sometimes envy the good and the brave, who are no more to suffer from the tumults of the natural world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature?
If your friend has displeased you, you shall not sit down to consider it, for he has already lost all memory of the passage, and has doubled his power to serve you, and, ere you can rise up again, will burden you with blessings.
A divine person is the prophecy of the mind; a friend is the hope of the heart.
A friend is Janus-faced: he looks to the past and the future. He is the child of all my foregoing hours, the prophet of those to come, and the harbinger of a greater friend.
We over-estimate the conscience of our friend. His goodness seems better than our goodness, his nature finer, his temptations less. Everything that is his,--his name, his form, his dress, books, and instruments,--fancy enhances. Our own thought sounds new and larger from his mouth.
In the last analysis, love is only the reflection of a man's own worthiness from other men.
Our relations to each other are oblique and casual.
Almost all people descend to meet. All association must be a compromise, and, what is worst, the very flower and aroma of the flower of each of the beautiful natures disappears as they approach each other.
My companion assumes to know my mood and habit of thought, and we go on from explanation to explanation, until all is said that words can, and we leave matters just as they were at first, because of that vicious assumption.
Every word we speak is million-faced or convertible to an indefinite number of applications. If it were not so we could read no book. Your remark would only fit your case, not mine.
The history of mankind interests us only as it exhibits a steady gain of truth and right, in the incessant conflict which it records between the material and the moral nature.
There are many faculties in man, each of which takes its turn of activity, and that faculty which is paramount in any period and exerts itself through the strongest nation, determines the civility of that age: and each age thinks its own the perfection of reason.
All inquiry into antiquity, all curiosity respecting the Pyramids, the excavated cities, Stonehenge, the Ohio Circles, Mexico, Memphis,--is the desire to do away this wild, savage, and preposterous There and Then, and introduce in its place the Here and Now.
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