Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.

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.

The globe has been circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has; you may survey a kingdom and note the result in maps, but all the savants in the world could not produce a reliable map of the poorest human personality.

Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.

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