From Its Peaceful Bosom Spring None But

Marriage Is The Torment Of One, The Felicity Of Two, The Strife And Enmity Of Three.

Nature Seems To Delight In Disappointing The Assuduities Of Art, With Which It Would Rear Dulness To Maturity, And To Glory In The Vigor And Luxuriance Of Her Chance Productions. She Scatters The Seeds Of Genius To The Winds, And Though Some May Perish Among The Stony Places Of The World, And Some May Be Choked By The Thorns And Brambles Of Early Adversity, Yet Others Will Now And Then Strike Root Even In The Clefts Of The Rock, Struggle Bravely Up Into Sunshine, And Spread Over Their Sterile Birthplace All The Beauties Of Vegetation.

The Easiest Thing To Do, Whenever You Fail, Is To Put Yourself Down By Blaming Your Lack Of Ability For Your Misfortunes.

There Is A Serene And Settled Majesty To Woodland Scenery That Enters Into The Soul And Delights And Elevates It, And Fills It With Noble Inclinations.

There Is A Healthful Hardiness About Real Dignity That Never Dreads Contact And Communion With Others However Humble.