Sentiment.—How much fine sentiment there is wasted in our strange world! I have seen a young lady in raptures of admiration over a flower which was to deck her hair in the ball-room, who would turn away with a look of loathing from the proffered kiss of her baby brother; and I have heard lovely lips, all wreathed in smiles, and breathing tones of joy over a pretty shell, a shining insect, or even a gay ribbon, say cold and cruel words to the best friend, ay, the mother, who was wearing her life out to promote the happiness of her ungrateful daughter.
Marriage.—When a man of sense comes to marry, it is a companion whom he wants, and not an artist. It is not merely a creature who can paint, play, dress, and dance—it is a being who can comfort and console him.
Blushing.—Blushing in the male sex is too frequently and constantly regarded as a proof of guiltiness: it is a proof of sensibility and fear of disrepute, by whatever incident called forth; but except in so far as fear of being thought guilty is proof, it affords no proof of the existence of the object by the idea of which the apprehension is excited.—Bentham.
Pride destroys all symmetry and grace, and affectation is a more terrible enemy to fine faces than the small pox.—Hughes.
At twenty years of ago the will reigns, at thirty the wit, at forty the judgment.—Grattan.
Authors in France seldom speak ill of each other, unless they have a personal pique. Authors in England seldom speak well of each other, unless they have a personal friendship.—Pope.
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