We are ourselves the stumbling-blocks in the way of our happiness. Place a common individual - by common, I mean with the common share of stupidity, custom, and discontent - place him in the garden of Eden, and he would not find it out unless he were told, and when told, he would not believe it.

My heart is its own grave!

Affection exaggerates its own offenses.

It is curious how inseparable eating and kindness are with some people.

How often, in this cold and bitter world, is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; we wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness.

A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble.

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.