Who Rant By Note, And Through The

Amidst The Soft Variety I'm Lost.

Nothing Lies On Our Hands With Such Uneasiness As Time. Wretched And Thoughtless Creatures! In The Only Place Where Covetousness Were A Virtue We Turn Prodigals.

I Have Always Preferred Cheerfulness To Mirth. The Latter I Consider As An Act, The Former As A Habit Of Mind. Mirth Is Short And Transient, Cheerfulness Fixed And Permanent.

Whether Dark Presages Of The Night Proceed From Any Latent Power Of The Soul During Her Abstraction, Or From Any Operation Of Subordinate Spirits, Has Been A Dispute.

A Vast Space Naturally Raises In My Thoughts The Idea Of An Almighty Being.