We Remove Mountains, And Make Seas Our

Poverty, We May Say, Surrounds A Man With Ready-made Barriers, Which If They Do Mournfully Gall And Hamper, Do At Least Prescribe For Him, And Force On Him, A Sort Of Course And Goal; A Safe And Beaten, Though A Circuitous, Course. A Great Part Of His Guidance Is Secure Against Fatal Error, Is Withdrawn From His Control. The Rich, Again, Has His Whole Life To Guide, Without Goal Or Barrier, Save Of His Own Choosing, And, Tempted, Is Too Likely To Guide It Ill.

That There Should One Man Die Ignorant Who Had Capacity For Knowledge, This I Call A Tragedy.

Silence Is The Eternal Duty Of Man.

After All Manner Of Professors Have Done Their Best For Us, The Place We Are To Get Knowledge Is In Books.

Thought, True Labor Of Any Kind, Highest Virtue Itself, Is It Not The Daughter Of Pain?