[T]here are depths of thousands of miles which are hidden from our inquiry. The only tidings we have from those unfathomable regions are by means of volcanoes, those burning mountains that seem to discharge their materials from the lowest abysses of the earth.

All his faults are such that one loves him still the better for them.

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

We seldom speak of the virtue which we have, but much oftener of that which we lack.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,- Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together, and they said, they liked the book the better the more it made them cry.