No thoroughly occupied man was ever yet very miserable.

In our road through life we may happen to meet with a man casting a stone reverentially to enlarge the cairn of another which stone he has carried in his bosom to sling against that very other's head.

There is no existence so content as that whose present is engrossed by employment, and whose future is filled by some strong hope, the truth of which is never proved. Toil and illusion are the only secrets to make life tolerable.

My heart is its own grave!

A preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author, like a lover, is privileged to be egotistical.

Assuredly, meeting after absence, is one of - ah, no! - it is life's most delicious feeling.

Confidence is its own security.