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.

Social life is filled with doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, when the imagination is dethroned, is turned to weariness and ennui.

though fortune's wheel is generally on the turn, sometimes when it gets into the mud, it sticks there.

Politeness, however, acts the lady's maid to our thoughts; and they are washed, dressed, curled, rouged, and perfumed, before they are presented to the public.

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

Hope is love's happiness, but not its life.

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