And, as I have said, it’s made me think twice about the imagination. If the spirits aren’t external, how astonishing the mediums become! Victor Hugo said of his voices that they were like his own mental powers multiplied by five.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Strange about parents. We have such easy access to them and such daunting problems of communication.
Virtues are acquired through endeavor, which rests wholly upon yourself.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
If a man made himself an expert in any particular branch of human activity, there would result the strong tendency that a peculiar aptitude towards the same branch would be found among some of his descendants.
I have frequently noticed in myself a tendency to a diffuse style; a disposition to push my metaphors too far, employing a multitude of words to heighten the patness of the image, and so making of it a conceit rather than a metaphor, a fault copiously illustrated in the poetry of Cowley, Waller, Donne, and others of that ilk.