There is no sense of weariness like that which closes in a day of eager and unintermittent pursuit of pleasure. The apple is eaten, but "the core sticks in the throat." Expectation has then given way to ennui, appetite to satiety.

Common sense, alas in spite of our educational institutions, is a rare commodity.

It is the passion that is in a kiss that gives to it its sweetness; it is the affection in a kiss that sanctifies it.

The trouble with men of sense is that they are so dreadfully in earnest all the while.

Affliction, like the iron-smith, shapes as it smites.

Truth, like the sun, submits to be obscured; but, like the sun, only for a time.

Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.