Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.

Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.

It is well for his peace that the saint goes to his martyrdom. He is spared the sight of the horror of his harvest.

There is no man who is not, at each moment, what he has been and what he will be.

Her love was trembling in laughter on her lips.

The American father is never seen in London. He passes his life entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month by means of a telegram in cipher.

Life is like a box of terrible analogies.