Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!

A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.

Science has succeeded to poetry, no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil?

Cultivate simplicity or rather should I say banish elaborateness, for simplicity springs spontaneous from the heart.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?

The light that lies In woman's eyes.

Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.