This greatest mortal consolation, which we derive from the transitoriness of all things-from the right of saying, in every conjuncture, "This, too, will pass away.

A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.

The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines himself within ancient limits.

The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and lastly, the solid cash.

Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart!

Keep the imagination sane--that is one of the truest conditions of communion with heaven.

If truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom.