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

Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity; and to glory in the vigour and luxuriance of her chance productions.

The paternal hearth, the rallying-place of the affections.

Too young for woe, though not for tears.

If I can, by a lucky chance, in these uneasy days, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sadness; if I can, how and then, prompt a happier view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, I shall not have written in vain.

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

I am always at a loss at how much to believe of my own stories.