When I am not walking, I am reading. I cannot sit and think.
The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.
In the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice.
I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library.
Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?
The trumpet does not more stun you by its loudness, than a whisper teases you by its provoking inaudibility.