long journeys are strange things: if we were always to continue in the same mind we are in at the end of a journey, we should never stir from the place we were then in: but Providence in kindness to us causes us to forget it. It is much the same with lying-in women. Heaven permits this forgetfulness that the world may be peopled, and that folks may take journeys to Provence.

There is no real evil in life, except great pain; all the rest is imaginary, and depends on the light in which we view things

It is the fine rain that soaks us through.

... we ought to be astonished at nothing; for what do we not meet with in our journey through life?

Why do we discover faults so much more readily than perfection.

We are so fond of hearing ourselves spoken of, that, be it good or ill, it is still pleasing.

When we reckon without Providence, we must frequently reckon twice.