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.

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

An old novel has a history of its own.

There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.

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

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