If One Had But A Single Glance

All Our Tastes Are But Reminiscences.

Virginity Is The Poetry, Not The Reality, Of Life.

There Are Places And Climates, Seasons And Hours, With Their Outward Circumstance, So Much In Harmony With Certain Impressions Of The Heart, That Nature And The Soul Of Man Appear To Be Parts Of One Vast Whole.

Eloquence Dwells Quite As Much In The Hearts Of The Hearers As On The Lips Of The Orator.

Private Passions Tire And Exhaust Themselves, Public Ones Never.