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Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface
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
Society
Eradicated
Eye
Lawn
Every
Lawns
Like
Velvet
Smiling
Delighted
Verdure
Grass
Smoothed
Surface
Roughness
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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.
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Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a ray of brightness over everything it is the sweetener of toil and the soother of disquietude!
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When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow.
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To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea-voyage is full of subjects for meditation but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes.
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after a man passes 60 , his mischief is mainly in his head
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Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture.
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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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There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse.
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A mother is the truest friend we have.
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One point is certain, that truth is one and immutable until the jurors all agree, they cannot all be right.
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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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The paternal hearth, the rallying-place of the affections.
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Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity and to glory in the vigour and luxuriance of her chance productions.
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The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.
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He who wins a thousand common hearts is entitled to some renown but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero.
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Men are always doomed to be duped, not so much by the arts of the other as by their own imagination. They are always wooing goddesses, and marrying mere mortals.
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A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles.
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He who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice.
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Those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home.
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Every desire bears its death in its very gratification. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants, and novelties cease to excite and surprise, until at length we cannot wonder even at a miracle.
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