Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge; it blossoms through the year. And depend on it that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.

There is no trusting appearances.

When delicate and feeling souls are separated, there is not a feature in the sky, not a movement of the elements, not an aspiration of the breeze, but hints some cause for a lover's apprehension.

If it is abuse, - why one is always sure to hear of it from one damned goodnatured friend or another!

Steal! to be sure they may; and, egad, serve your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children,-disfigure them to make 'em pass for their own.

O Lord, Sir - when a heroine goes mad she always goes into white satin.

Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.