I have had a great misfortune; my dear old dog is dead.

I have discovered that our great favourite, Miss Austen, is my countrywoman...with whom mamma before her marriage was acquainted. Mamma says that she was then the prettiest, silliest, most affected, husband-hunting butterfly she ever remembers...

There is no running away from a great grief.

That bad letters of every kind arise from want of the habit of thinking, I cannot doubt.

Buonaparte is certainly writing, or rather dictating, his memoirs. He walks backwards and forwards with his hands behind him, and dictates so fast that two or three of his suite are obliged to be in attendance, that the one may take down one-half of a sentence, and another the rest; they then literally compare notes, and put the disjointed legs and wings and heads of periods together. This is writing a book as he fought a battle.

I have still the best comforts of life - books and friendships - and I trust never to lose my relish for either.

Trees and children are, of all living things, those whose growth soonest makes one feel one's age.