Private passions tire and exhaust themselves, public ones never.

Kindness is virtue itself.

The death of a man's wife is like cutting down an ancient oak that has long shaded the family mansion. Henceforth the glare of the world, with its cares and vicissitudes falls upon the old widower's heart, and there is nothing to break their force, or shield him from the full weight of misfortune. It is as if his right hand were withered; as if one wing of his angel was broken, and every movement that he made brought him to the ground.

Music is the literature of the heart; it commences where speech ends.

Limited in his nature, infinite in his desires, man is a fallen god who remembers the heavens.

Fiction is the microscope of truth.

Newspapers will ultimately engross all literature.