It's A Fair Wind That

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.

In Civilized Life, Where The Happiness, And Indeed Almost The Existence, Of Man Depends So Much Upon The Opinion Of His Fellow Men, He Is Constantly Acting A Studied Part.

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.

No Man Knows What The Wife Of His Bosom Is Until He Has Gone With Her Through The Fiery Trials Of This World.

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.