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And if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.
Washington Irving
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Washington Irving
Age: 76 †
Born: 1783
Born: April 3
Died: 1859
Died: November 28
Author
Biographer
Diplomat
Essayist
Historian
Journalist
Lawyer
Novelist
Playwright
Politician
Writer
New York City
New York
Diedrich Knickerbocker
Geoffrey Crayon
Lauuncelot Langstaff
Unhappy
Left
Heart
Sacked
Love
Fortress
Like
Fortresses
Desolate
Captured
Abandoned
More quotes by Washington Irving
I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration.
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For what is history, but... huge libel on human nature, to which we industriously add page after page, volume after volume, as if we were holding up a monument to the honor, rather than the infamy of our species.
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No man knows what the wife of his bosom is until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world.
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Who ever hears of fat men heading a riot, or herding together in turbulent mobs? No - no, your lean, hungry men who are continually worrying society, and setting the whole community by the ears.
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Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting.
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Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven.
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A woman's whole life is a history of the affections.
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After all, it is the divinity within that makes the divinity without.
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The moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm the dreary hooting of the screechowl.
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History is but a kind of Newgate calendar, a register of the crimes and miseries that man has inflicted on his fellow-man.
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The literary world is made up of little confederacies, each looking upon its own members as the lights of the universe and considering all others as mere transient meteors, doomed to soon fall and be forgotten, while its own luminaries are to shine steadily into immortality.
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I have never found, in anything outside of the four walls of my study, an enjoyment equal to sitting at my writing desk with a clean page, a new theme, and a mind awake.
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The tongue is the only instrument that gets sharper with use.
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There is a serene and settled majesty to woodland scenery that enters into the soul and delights and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations.
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Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture.
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Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts contempt upon on all its sober realities. It renders the stock-jobber a magician, and the exchange a region of enchantment.
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Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the sprit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment.
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Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him.
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There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
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The almighty dollar, that great object of universal devotion.
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