It is to the credit of human nature, that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates.

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Language,—human language,—after all is but little better than the croak and cackle of fowls, and other utterances of brute nature,—sometimes not so adequate.

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

Let the black flower blossom as it may!

Life is made up of marble and mud.

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Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast-table.

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Man is a wretch without woman; but woman is a monster—and thank Heaven, an almost impossible and hitherto imaginary monster—without man, as her acknowledged principal!

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Mankind are earthen jugs with spirits in them.

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Men of cold passions have quick eyes.

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My heart was a habitation large enough for many guests, but lonely and chill, and without a household fire. I longed to kindle one! It seemed not so wild a dream.

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