Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present.

How beautiful, buoyant, and glad is morning! The first sunshine on the leaves: the first wind, laden with the first breath of the flowers—that deep sigh with which they seem to waken from sleep; the first dew, untouched even by the light foot of the early hare; the first chirping of the rousing birds, as if eager to begin song and flight; all is redolent of the strength given by rest, and the joy of conscious life.

Delicious tears! The heart's own dew.

The truth is, we like to talk over our disasters, because they are ours; and others like to listen, because they are not theirs.

youth, balancing itself upon hope, is forever in extremes: its expectations are continually aroused only to be baffled, and disappointment, like a summer shower, is violent in proportion to its brevity.

the fact is, that life is too short to be occupied by aught but the present - hope and remembrance are equally a waste of time.

ingratitude is the necessary consequence of receiving favors of which we are ashamed.