In All The Silent Manliness Of Grief.

Age, That Lessens The Enjoyment Of Life, Increases Our Desire Of Living

All That Philosophy Can Teach Is To Be Stubborn Or Sullen Under Misfortunes.

The Europeans Are Themselves Blind Who Describe Fortune Without Sight. No First-rate Beauty Ever Had Finer Eyes, Or Saw More Clearly. They Who Have No Other Trade But Seeking Their Fortune Need Never Hope To Find Her; Coquette-like, She Flies From Her Close Pursuers, And At Last Fixes On The Plodding Mechanic Who Stays At Home And Minds His Business.

There Is Yet A Silent Agony In Which The Mind Appears To Disdain All External Help, And Broods Over Its Distresses With Gloomy Reserve. This Is The Most Dangerous State Of Mind; Accidents Or Friendships May Lessen The Louder Kinds Of Grief, But All Remedies For This Must Be Had From Within, And There Despair Too Often Finds The Most Deadly Enemy.

Men May Be Very Learned, And Yet Very Miserable; It Is Easy To Be A Deep Geometrician, Or A Sublime Astronomer, But Very Difficult To Be A Good Man. I Esteem, Therefore, The Traveller Who Instructs The Heart, But Despise Him Who Only Indulges The Imagination. A Man Who Leaves Home To Mend Himself And Others, Is A Philosopher; But He Who Goes From Country To Country, Guided By The Blind Impulse Of Curiosity, Is Only A Vagabond.