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

To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.

To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.

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 brave soul is a thing which all things serve.

Your death and my death are mainly of importance to ourselves. The black plumes will be stripped off our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt hearts close again, our graves grow level with the church-yard, and although we are away, the world wags on. It does not miss us; and those who are near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss us much either.

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