There are some men who are fortune's favorites, and who, like cats, light forever on their legs.

To admit that there is any such thing as chance, in the common acceptation of the term, would be to attempt to establish a power independent of God.

Genius, in one respect, is like gold; numbers of persons are constantly writing about both, who have neither.

None are so seldom found alone, and are so soon tired of their own company, as those coxcombs who are on the best terms with themselves.

That writer does the most who gives his reader the most knowledge and takes from him the least time.

If that marvellous microcosm, man, with all the costly cargo of his faculties and powers, were indeed a rich argosy, fitted out and freighted only for shipwreck and destruction, who amongst us that tolerate the present only from the hope of the future, who that have any aspirings of a high and intellectual nature about them, could be brought to submit to the disgusting mortifications of the voyage?

Those that will not permit their wealth to do any good for others. . . cut themselves off from the truest pleasure here and the highest happiness later.