Could we perfect human nature, we might also expect a perfect state of things.

Habit is a man's sole comfort. We dislike doing without even unpleasant things to which we have become accustomed.

There is but one poetry,--true poetry.

The person of analytic or critical intellect finds something ridiculous in everything. The person of synthetic or constructive intellect, in almost nothing.

Two souls dwell, alas! in my breast.

Superstition is the poetry of life. It is inherent in man's nature; and when we think it is wholly eradicated, it takes refuge in the strangest holes and corners, whence it peeps out all at once, as soon as it can do it with safety.

One can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days