Those who have lost an infant are never, as it were, without an infant child. Their other children grow up to manhood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes of mortality; but this one alone is rendered an immortal child; for death has arrested it with his kindly harshness, and blessed it into an eternal image of youth and innocence.

The more sensible a woman is, supposing her not to be masculine, the more attractive she is in her proportionate power to entertain.

Words are often things also, and very precious, especially on the gravest occasions. Without "words," and the truth of things that is in them, what were we?

Poetry is the breath of beauty.

Beauty too often sacrifices to fashion.

Affection, like melancholy, magnifies trifles.

Patience and gentleness is power.