Night's Deepest Gloom Is But A Calm;

Fishes Do Not Roar; They Cannot Express Any Sound Of Suffering; And Therefore The Angler Chooses To Think They Do Not Suffer, More Than It Is Convenient For Him To Fancy. Now It Is A Poor Sport That Depends For Its Existence On The Want Of A Voice In The Sufferer, And Of Imagination In The Sportsman.

Nature, At All Events, Humanly Speaking, Is Manifestly Very Fond Of Color; For She Has Made Nothing Without It. Her Skies Are Blue; Her Fields, Green; Her Waters Vary With Her Skies; Her Animals, Vegetables, Minerals, Are All Colored. She Paints A Great Any Of Them In Apparently Superfluous Hues, As If To Show The Dullest Eye How She Loves Color.

We Really Cannot See What Equanimity There Is In Jerking A Lacerated Carp Out Of The Water By The Jaws, Merely Because It Has No The Power Of Making A Noise; For We Presume That The Most Philosophic Of Anglers Would Hardly Delight In Catching A Shrieking Fish.

Colors Are The Smiles Of Nature. When They Are Extremely Smiling, And Break Forth Into Other Beauty Besides, They Are Her Laughs.

Happy Opinions Are The Wine Of The Heart.