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The slanders of the pen pierce to the heart they rankle longest in the noblest spirits they dwell ever present in the mind and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision.

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
Sensitive
Slander
Criticism
Pierce
Present
Noblest
Spirit
Longest
Ever
Render
Morbidly
Heart
Dwell
Slanders
Mind
Pens
Trifling
Spirits
Collision

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I consider a story merely as a frame on which to stretch my materials.
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There is never jealousy where there is not strong regard.
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A woman's whole life is a history of the affections.
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What earnest worker, with hand and brain for the benefit of his fellowmen, could desire a more pleasing recognition of his usefulness than the monument of a tree, ever growing, ever blooming, and ever bearing wholesome fruit?
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There is a majestic grandeur in tranquillity.
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Sweet is the memory of distant friends! Like the mellow rays of the departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart.
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The tongue is the only instrument that gets sharper with use.
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The youthful freshness of a blameless heart.
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There is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that trancends all other affections of the heart
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Honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small and laughter abundant.
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The idol of today pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of tomorrow.
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Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time otherwise, the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature.
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To occupy an inch of dusty shelf-to have the title of their works read now and then in a future age by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler, and in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of boasted immortality.
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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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One point is certain, that truth is one and immutable until the jurors all agree, they cannot all be right.
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There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
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The paternal hearth, the rallying-place of the affections.
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