Christmas Is A Season Of Such Infinite

Your Theory Of Partial Immortality Is Abhorrent To Me. I Would Rather Disbelieve In The Immortality Of My Own Soul Than Suppose The Boon Given To Me Was Withheld From Any Of My Fellow Creatures.

American Gentlemen Are A Cross Between English And French Men, And Yet Really Altogether Like Neither. They Are More Refined And Modest Than Frenchmen, And Less Manly, Shy, And Rough, Than Englishmen. Their Brains Are Finer And Flimsier, Their Bodies Less Robust And Vigorous Than Ours. We Are The Finer Animals, And They The Subtler Spirits. Their Intellectual Tendency Is To Excitement And Insanity, And Ours To Stagnation And Stupidity.

Modesty Is A Diamond Setting To Female Beauty.

[on John Brown:] The Poor Wretch Is Hanged, But From His Grave A Root Of Bitterness Will Spring, The Fruit Of Which At No Distant Day May Be Disunion And Civil War.

My Chief Time For Reading Is At Night While Brushing My Hair Before I Go To Bed, And As You May Suppose, But Little Profit And Pleasure Can Be Derived From Such Mere Sips At The Well Of Knowledge. 'tis A Great Privation To Me, For My Desire For Information Increases Instead Of Diminishing, And I Look Forward With Great Anxiety To The Time When I Can Improve My Poor Neglected Mind And Learn Some Of The Few Exhaustless Store Of Things Which I Wish To Know.