What is a child, monsieur, but the image of two beings, the fruit of two sentiments spontaneously blended?
Many men are deeply moved by the mere semblance of suffering in a woman; they take the look of pain for a sign of constancy or of love.
Girls are apt to imagine noble and enchanting and totally imaginary figures in their own minds; they have fanciful extravagant ideas about men, and sentiment, and life; and then they innocently endow somebody or other with all the perfections for their daydreams, and put their trust in him.
The passion, observe, which is able to reflect, gives even to ninnies, fools, and imbeciles a species of intelligence, especially in youth.
A widow has two tasks before her, whose duties clash: she is a mother, and yet she must exercise parental authority.
Political liberty, the tranquility of a nation, nay, knowledge itself, are gifts on which destiny has laid a tax of blood!
Our most cruel enemies are our nearest in blood!... Kings have neither brothers, nor sons, nor mothers.
When religion and royalty are destroyed the people will attack the nobles; after the nobles, the rich.
To those who have exhausted statecraft, nothing remains but the realm of pure thought.
It is certain that during the sixteenth century, and the years that preceded and followed it, poisoning was brought to a perfection unknown to modern chemistry, as history itself will prove. Italy, the cradle of modern science, was, at this period, the inventor and mistress of these secrets, many of which are now lost.
Peter the Hermit, Calvin, and Robespierre, each at an interval of three hundred years and all three from the same region, were, politically speaking, the Archimedean screws of their age, at each epoch a Thought which found its fulcrum in the self-interest of mankind.
Power is action, and the elective principle is discussion.There is no policy, no statesmanship possible where discussion is permanent.
Children, dear and loving children, can alone console a woman for the loss of her beauty.
A mothers life, you see, is one long succession of dramas, now soft and tender, now terrible. Not an hour but has its joys and fears.
A year at the breast is quite enough; children who are suckled longer are said to grow stupid, and I am all for popular sayings.
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