When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in poetry – and often find it too – whether in the effusions of others, which seem to harmonize with our existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart.
if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of retired manners and secluded life, no one ever knows of her goodness, except her immediate connections; others, on the contrary, are disposed to form unfavorable opinions of her mind and disposition, if it be but to excuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so unfavored by nature
I had inquiries to make, and, like the substance of a lady's postscript, the most important must come last
I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart petrifying, my soul contracting
for I was lonely – never, from month to month, from year to year, did I see one creature to whom I could open my heart, or freely speak my thoughts with any hope of sympathy, or even comprehension