There Are, Indeed, Few Kinds

Whatever Is Formed For Long Duration Arrives Slowly To Its Maturity.

An Author Places Himself Uncalled Before The Tribunal Of Criticism And Solicits Fame At The Hazard Of Disgrace.

He That Outlives A Wife Whom He Has Long Loved, Sees Himself Disjoined From The Only Mind That Has The Same Hopes, And Fears, And Interest; From The Only Companion With Whom He Has Shared Much Good And Evil; And With Whom He Could Set His Mind At Liberty, To Retrace The Past Or Anticipate The Future. The Continuity Of Being Is Lacerated; The Settled Course Of Sentiment And Action Is Stopped; And Life Stands Suspended And Motionless.

Sir, A Man Who Cannot Get To Heaven In A Green Coat, Will Not Find His Way Thither The Sooner In A Grey One.

It Very Seldom Happens To A Man That His Business Is His Pleasure.