Writers cannot choose their own mood: with them it is not always hide-tide, nor --thank Heaven!--always Storm.

As to the thoughts, they are elfish. Those eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream.

When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were - large, brilliant, and black.

It would not be wicked to love me." "It would to obey you.

I am not an angel," I asserted; "and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself.

You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this - if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to new.

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.