Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

Oh, child, men's men: gentle or simple, they're much of a muchness.

A picture of human life such as a great artist can give, surprises even the trivial and the selfish into that attention to what is apart from themselves, which may be called the raw material of moral sentiment.

Imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity.

There is hardly any contact more depressing to a young ardent creature than that of a mind in which years full of knowledge seem to have issued in a blank absence of interest or sympathy.

Things are achieved when they are well begun.

The mother's love is at first an absorbing delight, blunting all other sensibilities; it is an expansion of the animal existence.