To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.

There is a certain even-handed justice in Time; and for what he takes away he gives us something in return. He robs us of elasticity of limb and spirit, and in its place he brings tranquility and repose—the mild autumnal weather of the soul.

Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps.

It is the sternest philosophy, but on the whole the truest, that, in the wide arena of the world, failure and success are not accidents, as we so frequently suppose, but the strictest justice.

Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.

A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.