I Could Not Unlove Him

Remorse Is The Poison Of Life.

You Can Write Nothing Of Value Unless You Give Yourself Wholly To The The Theme -- And When You So Give Yourself -- You Lose Appetite Ans Sleep -- It Cannot Be Helped --

Spring Drew On... And A Greenness Grew Over Those Brown Beds, Which, Freshening Daily, Suggested The Thought That Hope Traversed Them At Night And Left Each Morning Brighter Traces Of Her Steps.

Of Late Years An Abundant Shower Of Curates Has Fallen Upon The North Of England.

Adversity Is A Good School.