The Lord help us!' he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.

If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But if you be afraid of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in.

No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere.

If I could I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results.

I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be — that proves I love him better than myself.

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.