A novel should be as like life as a painting, but not as like life as a piece of waxwork.

Buonaparte is certainly writing, or rather dictating, his memoirs. He walks backwards and forwards with his hands behind him, and dictates so fast that two or three of his suite are obliged to be in attendance, that the one may take down one-half of a sentence, and another the rest; they then literally compare notes, and put the disjointed legs and wings and heads of periods together. This is writing a book as he fought a battle.

Autumn glows upon us like a splendid evening; it is the very sunset of the year.

She was the prettiest, silliest, most affected, husband-hunting butterfly ever.

I have had a great misfortune; my dear old dog is dead.

[On Elizabeth Barrett Browning:] ... for finish, and melody of versification, there is nothing approaching to Miss Barrett in this day, or in any other - also for diction. Her words paint.

Prejudices of taste, likings and dislikings, are not always vanquishable by reason.