There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.

All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.

Despair and Genius are too oft connected

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

So much alarmed that she is quite alarming