The Rapturuous, Wild, And Ineffable Pleasure Of

Affection, Like Melancholy, Magnifies Trifles.

Beauty Too Often Sacrifices To Fashion. The Spirit Of Fashion Is Not The Beautiful, But The Wilful; Not The Graceful, But The Fantastic; Not The Superior In The Abstract, But The Superior In The Worst Of All Concretes,-the Vulgar.

It Is A Delicious Moment, Certainly, That Of Being Well Nestled In Bed, And Feeling That You Shall Drop Gently To Sleep. The Good Is To Come, Not Past; The Limbs Have Just Been Tired Enough To Render The Remaining In One Posture Delightful; The Labour Of The Day Is Gone

This Garden Has A Soul, I Know Its Moods.

Part Of Our Good Consists In The Endeavor To Do Sorrows Away, And In The Power To Sustain Them When The Endeavor Fails,--to Bear Them Nobly, And Thus Help Others To Bear Them As Well.