Consistency Is A Human Word,

The Heart's Hushed Secret In The Soft Dark Eye.

We Would Liken Music To Aladdin's Lamp — Worthless In Itself, Not So For The Spirits Which Obey Its Call. We Love It For The Buried Hopes, The Garnered Memories, The Tender Feelings, It Can Summon With A Touch.

Youth, Balancing Itself Upon Hope, Is Forever In Extremes: Its Expectations Are Continually Aroused Only To Be Baffled, And Disappointment, Like A Summer Shower, Is Violent In Proportion To Its Brevity.

Memory Has Many Conveniences, And, Among Others, That Of Foreseeing Things As They Have Afterwards Happened.

Strange Mystery Of Our Nature, That Those In Whom Genius Develops Itself In Imagination, Thus Taking Its Most Ethereal Form, Should Yet Be The Most Dependent On The Opinions Of Others!