He That Drinks Beer, Thinks

It Is Not Poverty So Much As Pretense That Harasses A Ruined Man - The Struggle Between A Proud Mind And An Empty Purse - The Keeping Up Of A Hollow Show That Must Soon Come To An End.

The Paternal Hearth, The Rallying-place Of The Affections.

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

There Is Something Nobly Simple And Pure In A Taste For The Cultivation Of Forest Trees. It Argues, I Think, A Sweet And Generous Nature To Have His Strong Relish For The Beauties Of Vegetation, And This Friendship For The Hardy And Glorious Sons Of The Forest. He Who Plants A Tree Looks Forward To Future Ages, And Plants For Posterity. Nothing Could Be Less Selfish Than This.

The Great British Library --an Immense Collection Of Volumes Of All Ages And Languages, Many Of Which Are Now Forgotten, And Most Of Which Are Seldom Read: One Of These Sequestered Pools Of Obsolete Literature To Which Modern Authors Repair, And Draw Buckets Full Of Classic Lore, Or Pure English, Undefiled Wherewith To Swell Their Own Scanty Rills Of Thought.