Labour is the purgatory of the erring.

The classic literature is always modern.

How many of us have been attracted to reason; first learned to think, to draw conclusions, to extract a moral from the follies of life, by some dazzling aphorism.

The grave is, I suspect, the sole commonwealth which attains that dead flat of social equality that life in its every principle so heartily abhors.

Good humor is the sunshine of the mind.

There is no man so great as not to have some littleness more predominant than all his greatness. Our virtues are the dupes, and often only the plaything of our follies.

Common sense is only a modification of talent. Genius is an exaltation of it. The difference is, therefore, in degree, not nature.