[i]n The Gloomy Month Of

Too Young For Woe, Though Not For Tears.

When Friends Grow Cold, And The Converse Of Intimates Languishes Into Vapid Civility And Commonplace, These Only Continue The Unaltered Countenance Of Happier Days, And Cheer Us With That True Friendship Which Never Deceived Hope, Nor Deserted Sorrow.

There Is Nothing In England That Exercises A More Delightful Spell Over My Imagination Than The Lingerings Of The Holiday Customs And Rural Games Of Former Times. They Recall The Pictures My Fancy Used To Draw In The May Morning Of Life, When As Yet I Only Knew The World Through Books, And Believed It To Be All That Poets Had Painted It; And They Bring With Them The Flavour Of Those Honest Days Of Yore, In Which, Perhaps With Equal Fallacy, I Am Apt To Think The World Was More Home-bred, Social, And Joyous Than At Present.

How Convenient It Would Be To Many Of Our Great Men And Great Families Of Doubtful Origin, Could They Have The Privilege Of The Heroes Of Yore, Who, Whenever Their Origin Was Involved In Obscurity, Modestly Announced Themselves Descended From A God.

One Of The Greatest And Simplest Tools For Learning More And Growing Is Doing More.