My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.

We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once.

I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.

To bring the best human qualities to anything like perfection, to fill them with the sweet juices of courtesy and charity, prosperity, or, at all events, a moderate amount of it, is required,--just as sunshine is needed for the ripening of peaches and apricots.

If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death.

Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.

In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.