How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?

Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.

I hate the man who eats without knowing what he’s eating. I doubt his taste in more important things.

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.

Brandy and water spoils two good things.

Clap an extinguisher upon your irony if you are unhappily blessed with a vein of it.

My motto is: Contented with little, yet wishing for more.