I Have Often Thought What A Melancholy

The Love Of A Mother Is The Veil Of A Softer Light Between The Heart And The Heavenly Father.

Call Not That Man Wretched, Who Whatever Else He Suffers As To Pain Inflicted, Or Pleasure Denied, Has A Child For Whom He Hopes And On Whom He Doats.

That Willing Suspension Of Disbelief For The Moment, Which Constitutes Poetic Faith.

I Am Never Very Forward In Offering Spiritual Consolation To Any One In Distress Or Disease. I Believe That Such Resources, To Be Of Any Service, Must Be Self-evolved In The First Instance. I Am Something Of The Quaker's Mind In This, And Am Inclined To Wait For The Spirit.

It Cannot But Be Injurious To The Human Mind Never To Be Called Into Effort: The Habit Of Receiving Pleasure Without Any Exertion Of Thought, By The Mere Excitement Of Curiosity, And Sensibility, May Be Justly Ranked Among The Worst Effects Of Habitual Novel-reading.