In one of the Welsh counties is a small village called A-----. It is somewhat removed from the high road, and is, therefore, but little known to those luxurious amateurs of the picturesque, who view nature through the windows of a carriage and four.

To how many is the death of the beloved the parent of faith!

The more the merely human part of the poet remains a mystery, the more willing is the reverence given to his divine mission.

Toil to some is happiness, and rest to others. This man can only breathe in crowds, and that man only in solitudes.

When the soul communes with itself the lip is silent.

The cleverness of avarice is but the cunning of imbecility.

The same refinement which brings us new pleasures exposes us to new pains.