It Is Our Relation To Circumstances That

The Natural Wants Are Few, And Easily Gratified: It Is Only Those Which Are Artificial That Perplex Us By Their Multiplicity.

Wit Is Better As A Seasoning Than As A Whole Dish By Itself.

There Is Great Beauty In Going Through Life Without Anxiety Or Fear. Half Our Fears Are Baseless, And The Other Half Discreditable.

We Should Not So Much Esteem Our Poverty As A Misfortune, Were It Not That The World Treats It So Much As A Crime

What A Position Of Transcendent Horror Must That Be, Where The Perpetrator Of A Great Crime, Till Then A Stranger To Positive Guilt, Finds Himself Suddenly Cut Off, And Forever, From All Human Sympathy, Isolated From Hope, The Tenant Of A Solitary Cell, And With A Wide, Impassable Gulf Yawning Between Him And That Great Brotherhood Of Which He Has Ceased To Be A Part--no Longer Regarded As A Man, But As A Monster In The Shape Of One, From Whom Mercy Herself Turns Away, And For Whom Pity Even Has No Tears!