She feared the unknown as we all do, and her ignorance made the unknown infinitely vast.

This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man will never on his heap of mud keep still.

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts.

The good author is he who contemplates without marked joy or excessive sorrow the adventures of his soul amongst criticisms.

Books may be written in all sorts of places. Verbal inspiration may enter the berth of a mariner on board a ship frozen fast in a river in the middle of a town.

It is a maudlin and indecent verity that comes out through the strength of wine.

The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky--seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.