There is a diabolical trio existing in the natural man, implacable, inextinguishable, co-operative and consentaneous, pride, envy, and hate; pride that makes us fancy we deserve all the goods that others possess; envy that some should be admired while we are overlooked; and hate, because all that is bestowed on others, diminishes the sum we think due to ourselves.

The most ridiculous of all animals is a proud priest; he cannot use his own tools without cutting his own fingers.

Miss Edgeworth and Mme. de Stael have proved that there is no sex in style; and Mme. la Roche Jacqueline, and the Duchesse d'Angouleme have proved that there is no sex in courage.

Some are cursed with the fullness of satiety; and how can they bear the ills of life when its very pleasures fatigue them?

Genius, in one respect, is like gold; numbers of persons are constantly writing about both, who have neither.

Gold is worshipped in all climates, without a single temple, and by all classes, without a single hypocrite.

To be a mere verbal critic is what no man of genius would be if he could; but to be a critic of true taste and feeling is what no man without genius could be if he would.