I believe that there is much less difference between the author and his works than is currently supposed; it is usually in the physical appearance of the writer,--his manners, his mien, his exterior,--that he falls short of the ideal a reasonable man forms of him--rarely in his mind.

Chance happens to all, but to turn chance to account is the gift of few.

No reproach is like that we clothe in a smile, and present with a bow.

The circle of life is cut up into segments. All lines are equal if they are drawn from the centre and touch the circumference.

There is certainly something of exquisite kindness and thoughtful benevolence in that rarest of gifts,--fine breeding.

In solitude the passions feed upon the heart.

The bold sympathize with the bold; and in great hearts, there is always a certain friendship for a gallant foe.