There is something more awful in happiness than in sorrow--the latter being earthly and finite, the former composed of the substance and texture of eternity, so that spirits still embodied may well tremble at it.

Happiness is like a butterfly.

If human love hath power to penetrate the veil--and hath it not?--then there are yet living here a few who have the blessedness of knowing that an angel loves them.

The best of us being unfit to die, what an unexpressible absurdity to put the worst to death.

Easy reading is damn hard writing.

Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart!

it is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom.