Men are continually in search of some sequestered retreat, some villa on the sea-shore, or on some airy mountain. And you, my friend, were formerly very much attached to retirement. But this is evidently a mere vulgar conception of things. You have it in your power, at any time and in any place, to retire into yourself; and where can a man find a more peaceful or more undisturbed repose than in his own soul? Especially one who, when he looks into his own breast, finds nothing there but a perfect calm; such a calm I mean as arises from order and well-regulated passions and affections.

We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate. As if the main object were to talk fast and not to talk sensibly. We are eager to tunnel under the Atlantic and bring the Old World some weeks nearer to the New; but perchance the first news that will leak through into the broad, flapping American ear will be that the Princess Adelaide has the whooping cough. After all, the man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most important messages.

I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.

The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as oppressive, sad, and solitary by night, as any about London. There were neither wharves nor houses on the melancholy waste of road near the great blank Prison. A sluggish ditch deposited its mud at the prison walls. Coarse grass and rank weeds straggled over all the marshy land in the vicinity. In one part, carcases of houses, inauspiciously begun and never finished, rotted away. In another, the ground was cumbered with rusty iron monsters of steam-boilers, wheels, cranks, pipes, furnaces, paddles, anchors, diving-bells, windmill-sails, and I know not what strange objects, accumulated by some speculator, and grovelling in the dust, underneath which – having sunk into the soil of their own weight in wet weather – they had the appearance of vainly trying to hide themselves.

But lo! men have become the tools of their tools.

Nothing ever befals any one, but what it is in his power to bear. The same misfortunes happen to others, who, either through ignorance or insensibility, or from an ostentatious magnanimity, have stood firm, and apparently free from grief or perturbation.

Now, is it not shameful that ignorance or vanity should display more fortitude than all our prudence and philosophy?

What, unless biological science is a mass of errors, is the cause of human intelligence and vigour? Hardship and freedom: conditions under which the active, strong, and subtle survive and the weaker go to the wall; conditions that put a premium upon the loyal alliance of capable men, upon self-restraint, patience, and decision. And the institution of the family, and the emotions that arise therein, the fierce jealousy, the tenderness for offspring, parental self-devotion, all found their justification and support in the imminent dangers of the young. Now, where are these imminent dangers? There is a sentiment arising, and it will grow, against connubial jealousy, against fierce maternity, against passion of all sorts; unnecessary things now, and things that make us uncomfortable, savage survivals, discords in a refined and pleasant life.

Their targets in a tortoise cast, the foes,
Secure advancing, to the turrets rose:
Some mount the scaling ladders; some, more bold,
Swerve upwards, and by posts and pillars hold;
Their left hand grips their bucklers in th’ ascent,
While with their right they seize the battlement.
From their demolish’d tow’rs the Trojans throw
Huge heaps of stones, that, falling, crush the foe;
And heavy beams and rafters from the sides
(Such arms their last necessity provides)
And gilded roofs, come tumbling from on high,
The marks of state and ancient royalty.

He was the Kind of Fellow who would see a Girl twice, and then, upon meeting her the Third Time, he would go up and straighten her Cravat for her, and call her by her First Name.

But men labor under a mistake. The better part of the man is soon plowed into the soil for compost. By a seeming fate, commonly called necessity, they are employed, as it says in an old book, laying up treasures which moth and rust will corrupt and thieves break through and steal. It is a fool’s life, as they will find when they get to the end of it, if not before. It is said that Deucalion and Pyrrha created men by throwing stones over their heads behind them:

   Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum,
   Et documenta damus qua simus origine nati.

Or, as Raleigh rhymes it in his sonorous way,

   "From thence our kind hard-hearted is, enduring pain and care,
   Approving that our bodies of a stony nature are.“

So much for a blind obedience to a blundering oracle, throwing the stones over their heads behind them, and not seeing where they fell.