A Sealed Book, At Whose Contents We

Strange The Affection Which Clings To Inanimate Objects - Objects Which Cannot Even Know Our Love! But It Is Not Return That Constitutes The Strength Of An Attachment.

Habit Is A Second Nature, And What Was At First Pleasure, Is Next Necessity.

A Preface Is A Species Of Literary Luxury, Where An Author, Like A Lover, Is Privileged To Be Egotistical.

There Is Nothing So Easy As To Be Wise For Others; A Species Of Prodigality, By-the-by - For Such Wisdom Is Wholly Wasted.

The Dream On The Pillow, That Flits With The Day, The Leaf Of The Willow A Breath Wears Away; The Dust On The Blossom, The Spray On The Sea; Ay,--ask Thine Own Bosom-- Are Emblems Of Thee.