Death Was Too Definite An Object To

It Is My Opinion That A Man's Soul May Be Buried And Perish Under A Dung-heap, Or In A Furrow Field, Just As Well As Under A Pile Of Money.

The Book, If You Would See Anything In It, Requires To Be Read In The Clear, Brown, Twilight Atmosphere In Which It Was Written; If Opened In The Sunshine, It Is Apt To Look Exceedingly Like A Volume Of Blank Pages.

Life Figures Itself To Me As A Festal Or Funereal Procession.

New England Is Quite As Large A Lump Of Earth As My Heart Can Really Take In.

Generosity Is The Flower Of Justice.