There is a certain artificial polish, a commonplace vivacity acquired by perpetually mingling in the beau monde; which, in the commerce of world, supplies the place of natural suavity and good-humour, but is purchased at the expense of all original and sterling traits of character.

Christmas is a season for kindling the fire for hospitality in the hall, the genial flame of charity in the heart.

Men are always doomed to be duped, not so much by the arts of the other as by their own imagination. They are always wooing goddesses, and marrying mere mortals.

I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortunes.

Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.

When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow.

Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture.