Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.

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

A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.

Everything is sweetened by risk.

I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.

Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his asides.

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.