The divine chemistry works in the subsoil.

There is an alchemy of quiet malice by which women can concoct a subtle poison from ordinary trifles.

The love of posterity is the consequence of the necessity of death. If a man were sure of living forever here, he would not care about his offspring.

Nobody will use other people's experience, nor have any of his own till it is too late to use it.

Before this ugly edifice, and between it and the wheel-track of the street, was a grass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pig-weed, apple-pern, and such unsightly vegetation, which evidently found something congenial in the soil that had so early borne the black flower of civilized society, a prison.

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.

Let the black flower blossom as it may!