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It is not poverty so much as pretense that harasses a ruined man.
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
Men
Pretension
Pretense
Hollow
Ruined
Poverty
Much
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A mother is the truest friend we have when trials, heavy and sudden, fall upon us when adversity takes the place of prosperity.
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It is not poverty so much as pretense that harasses a ruined man - the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse - the keeping up of a hollow show that must soon come to an end.
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Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify 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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Some minds seem almost to create themselves, springing up under every disadvantage and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles.
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A father may turn his back on his child, brothers and sisters may become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, wives their husbands. But a mother's love endures through all.
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The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate the mind.
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The tongue is the only instrument that gets sharper with use.
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Small minds are subdued by misfortunes, greater minds overcome them.
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The Englishman is too apt to neglect the present good in preparing against the possible evil.
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To look upon its grass grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
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There is a certain artificial polish, a commonplace vivacity acquired by perpetually mingling in the beau monde which, in the commerce of world, supplies the place of natural suavity and good-humour, but is purchased at the expense of all original and sterling traits of character.
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If I can, by a lucky chance, in these uneasy days, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sadness if I can, how and then, prompt a happier view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, I shall not have written in vain.
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With every exertion, the best of men can do but a moderate amount of good but it seems in the power of the most contemptible individual to do incalculable mischief.
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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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There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living.
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Christmas is here, Merry old Christmas, Gift-bearing Christmas, Day of grand memories, King of the year!
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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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Enthusiasts soon understand each other.
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