A System-grinder Hates The Truth.

When At Last In A Race A New Principle Appears, An Idea--that Conserves It; Ideas Only Save Races.

The Tempered Light Of The Woods Is Like A Perpetual Morning.

Logic Is The Procession Or Proportionate Unfolding Of The Intuition; But Its Virtue Is As Silent Method; The Moment It Would Appear As Propositions, And Have A Separate Value, It Is Worthless.

There Is This To Be Said In Favor Of Drinking, That It Takes The Drunkard First Out Of Society, Then Out Of The World.

We Expect A Great Man To Be A Good Reader.