How Odd It Is That

There Is Always A But In This Imperfect World.

It Is A Hard, Embittering Thing To Have One's Kind Feelings And Good Intentions Cast Back In One's Teeth.

What The World Stigmatizes As Romantic Is Often More Nearly Allied To The Truth Than Is Commonly Supposed.

I Still Preserve Those Relics Of Past Sufferings And Experience, Like Pillars Of Witness Set Up In Travelling Through The Valve Of Life, To Mark Particular Occurrences. The Footsteps Are Obliterated Now; The Face Of The Country May Be Changed; But The Pillar Is Still There, To Remind Me How All Things Were When It Was Reared.

But Smiles And Tears Are So Alike With Me, They Are Neither Of Them Confined To Any Particular Feelings: I Often Cry When I Am Happy, And Smile When I Am Sad.