At its starting point in India, the birthplace of races and religions, the womb of the world.

Each year, it is necessary to respire, to take breath again, to revive ourselves at the great living sources that forever keep their eternal freshness. Where can we find them if not at the cradle of our race, on the sacred summits from where descend the Indus and the Ganges....?

The indifference of men, far more than their tyranny, is the torment of women.

Woman is the Sunday of man: not his repose only, but his joy; the salt of his life.

Love is strong in its passion; affection is powerful in its gentleness.

The historian's first duties are sacrilege and the mocking of false gods. They are his indispensable instruments for establishing the truth.

What manly eloquence could produce such an effect as woman's silence?