Occupation is one great source of enjoyment. No man, properly occupied, was ever miserable.

habit is our idea of eternity.

There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness.

who has not experienced, at some time or other, that words had all the relief of tears?

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.

It is amazing how much a thought expands and refines by being put into speech: I should think it could hardly know itself.

Are we not like the actor of old times, who wore his mask so long his face took its likeness?