Men, in general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you have an idea.

I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart.

There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they will have a witness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may.

I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon.

Friendship however is a plant which cannot be forced -- true friendship is no gourd spring up in a night and withering in a day.

In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life—November seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.

Tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.