1812-1870. British novelist.
With affection beaming in one eye, and calculation shining out of the other.
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A day wasted on others is not wasted on one's self.
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Mind like bodies, will often fall into a pimpled, ill-conditioned state from mere excess of comfort.
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Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called man! Oh the little that unhinges it, poor creatures that we are!
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They are so filthy and bestial that no honest man would admit one into his house for a water-closet doormat.
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Philosophers are only men in armor after all.
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The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land, in England there shall be dear bread -- in Ireland, sword and brand; and poverty, and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand, so rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand, of the fine old English Tory days; hail to the coming time!
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There are only two styles of portrait painting; the serious and the smirk.
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A man in public life expects to be sneered at -- it is the fault of his elevated situation, and not of himself.
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Regrets are the natural property of gray hairs.
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