The Only Happy Author In This World

No Man Is So Methodical As A Complete Idler, And None So Scrupulous In Measuring Out His Time As He Whose Time Is Worth Nothing.

There Is A Healthful Hardiness About Real Dignity That Never Dreads Contact And Communion With Others However Humble.

How We Delight To Build Our Recollections Upon Some Basis Of Reality,--a Place, A Country, A Local Habitation! How The Events Of Life, As We Look Back Upon Them, Have Grown Into The Well-remembered Background Of The Places Where They Fell Upon Us! Here Is Some Sunny Garden Or Summer Lane, Beautified And Canonized Forever, With The Flood Of A Great Joy; And Here Are Dim And Silent Places,--rooms Always Shadowed And Dark To Us, Whatever They May Be To Others,--where Distress Or Death Came Once, And Since Then Dwells Forevermore.

Surely Happiness Is Reflective, Like The Light Of Heaven.

There Is No Character In The Comedy Of Human Life More Difficult To Play Well Than That Of An Old Bachelor.