“Even the weakest disputant is made so conceited by what he calls religion, as to think himself wiser than the wisest who think differently from him.”
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Prose on certain occasions can bear a great deal of poetry on the other hand, poetry sinks and swoons under a moderate weight of prose.
The flame of anger, bright and brief, sharpens the barb of love.
Every sect is a moral check on its neighbour. Competition is as wholesome in religion as in commerce.
Study is the bane of childhood, the oil of youth, the indulgence of adulthood, and a restorative in old age.
