Forgotten rimes, and college themes,/ Worm-eaten plans, and embryo schemes;/ A mass of heterogeneous matter./ A chaos dark, nor land nor water.

You speak of beginning the education of your son. The moment he was able to form an idea his education was already begun. . . .

The dead of midnight is the noon of thought.

It would be difficult to determine whether the age is growing better or worse; for I think our plays are growing like sermons, and our sermons like plays.

We can only love what we know

When one by one our ties are torn, and friend from friend is snatched forlorn; when man is left alone to mourn, oh! then how sweet it is to die!