About thirty years ago, Miss Maria Ward of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences of an handsome house and large income.

Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. . . . Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was an overpowering happiness.

I will not say that your mulberry trees are dead; but I am afraid they're not alive.

We neither of us perform to strangers.

I am excessively diverted.

It is the misfortune of poetry, to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoy it completely.

They parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.