And A Beautiful World We Live In,

The Aphorism "whatever Is, Is Right," Would Be As Final As It Is Lazy, Did It Not Include The Troublesome Consequence That Nothing That Ever Was, Was Wrong.

In Love Of Home, The Love Of Country Has Its Rise.

The Talker Has Found A Hearer But Not A Listener; And Though He May Talk His Very Best For His Own Sake, You Will Find That His Mental Movements Are Erratic: They Have No Fixed Centre And No Definite Object. His Talk Is Like The Water Of A Canal Whose Banks Have Given Way, Which Rolls Aimlessly Hither And Thither, Without Fulfilling Any Useful Function, Though It Is The Same Water Which Was So Helpful And Serviceable, When It Was Confined Within Clearly Marked Limits By The Restraining Force Of Its Earthy Boundaries.

Be Natural My Children. For The Writer That Is Natural Has Fulfilled All The Rules Of Art.

There Have Been Occasions In My Later Life (i Suppose As In Most Lives) When I Have Felt For A Time As If A Thick Curtain Had Fallen On All Its Interest And Romance, To Shut Me Out From Anything Save Dull Endurance Any More. Never Has That Curtain Dropped So Heavy And Blank, As When My Way In Life Lay Stretched Out Straight Before Me Through The Newly-entered Road Of Apprenticeship To Joe.