The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed.

[O]ur honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine.

Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the North of England.

Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb.

One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune, one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow.

You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present: now I want to read.

To the dear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break... I am ever tender and true.