Everything Is Sweetened By Risk.

An Old Novel Has A History Of Its Own.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.

Every Man's Road In Life Is Marked By The Grave Of His Personal Likings.

Happiness Never Lays Its Finger On Its Pulse. If We Attempt To Steal A Glimpse Of Its Features It Disappears.