A certain simplicity of thought is common to serene souls at both ends of the social scale.

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.

There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery.

Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.

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

For a moment I had a view of a world that seemed to wear a vast and dismal aspect of disorder, while, in truth, thanks to our unwearied efforts, it is as sunny an arrangement of small conveniences as the mind of man can conceive.

The sea never changes and its works, for all the talks of men, are wrapped in mystery.