States, like men, have their growth, their manhood, their decrepitude, their decay.

Many love music but for music's sake, Many because her touches can awake Thoughts that repose within the breast half-dead, And rise to follow where she loves to lead. What various feelings come from days gone by! What tears from far-off sources dim the eye! Few, when light fingers with sweet voices play, And melodies swell, pause, and melt away, Mind how at every touch, at every tone, A spark of life hath glistened and hath gone.

Study is the bane of childhood, the oil of youth, the indulgence of adulthood, and a restorative in old age.

There is a desire of property in the sanest and best men, which Nature seems to have implanted as conservative of her works, and which is necessary to encourage and keep alive the arts.

We fancy we suffer from ingratitude, while in reality we suffer from self-love.

Immoderate power, like other intemperance, leaves the progeny weaker and weaker, until nature as in compassion covers it with her mantle and it is seen no more.

The happiest of pillows is not that which love first presses! it is that which death has frowned on and passed over.