A man does not plant a tree for himself; he plants it for posterity.

Men and women make their own beauty or their own ugliness. Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton speaks in one of his novels of a man "who was uglier than he had any business to be;" and, if we could but read it, every human being carries his life in his face, and is good-looking or the reverse as that life has been good or evil. On our features the fine chisels of thought and emotion are eternally at work.

How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.

Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.

If the egotist is weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a possession of the race.

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

Every day travels toward death; the last only arrives at it.