Surely Happiness Is Reflective, Like The Light

There Is A Certain Relief In Change, Even Though It Be From Bad To Worse.

Language Gradually Varies, And With It Fade Away The Writings Of Authors Who Have Flourished Their Allotted Time; Otherwise, The Creative Powers Of Genius Would Overstock The World, And The Mind Would Be Completely Bewildered In The Endless Mazes Of Literature.

He Who Would Study Nature In Its Wildness And Variety, Must Plunge Into The Forest, Must Explore The Glen, Must Stem The Torrent, And Dare The Precipice.

Wit, After All, Is A Mighty Tart, Pungent Ingredient, And Much Too Acid For Some Stomachs; But Honest Good Humor Is The Oil And Wine Of A Merry Meeting.

The Only Happy Author In This World Is He Who Is Below The Care Of Reputation.