Our Friends Interpret The World And Ourselves

Like Birds Of Passage, The Instincts Drift The Soul Adventurously Beyond The Horizon Of Sensible Things, As If Intent On Convoying It To The Mother Country From Whence It Had Flown.

All Unrest Is But The Struggle Of The Soul To Reassure Herself Of Her Inborn Immortality.

One's Outlook Is A Part Of His Virtue.

Books Are The Most Mannerly Of Companions, Accessible At All Times, In All Moods, Frankly Declaring The Author's Mind, Without Offense.

Friends Are The Leaders Of The Bosom, Being More Ourselves Than We Are, And We Complement Our Affections In Theirs.