Happiness, Or Misery, Is In The Mind.

The Very Hirelings Of The Press, Whose Trade It Is To Buoy Up The Spirits Of The People... Have Uttered Falsehoods So Long, They Have Played Off So Many Tricks, That Their Budget Seems, At Last, To Be Quite Empty.

Having Still In My Recollection So Many Excellent Men, To Whose Grandfathers, Upon The Same Spots, My Grandfather Had Yielded Cheerful Obedience And Reverence, It Is Not Without Sincere Sorrow That I Have Beheld Many Of The Sons Of These Men Driven From Their Fathers' Mansions, Or Holding Them As Little Better Than Tenants Or Stewards, While The Swarms Of Placemen, Pensioners, Contractors, And Nabobs... Have Usurped A Large Part Of The Soil.

The Ancient Nobility And Gentry Of The Kingdom... Have Been Thrust Out Of All Public Employment... A Race Of Merchants, And Manufacturers And Bankers And Loan-jobbers And Contractors Have Usurped Their Place.

All My Plans In Private Life; All My Pursuits; All My Designs, Wishes, And Thoughts, Have This One Great Object In View: The Overthrow Of The Ruffian Boroughmongers. If I Write Grammars; If I Write On Agriculture; If I Sow, Plant, Or Deal In Seeds; Whatever I Do Has First In View The Destruction Of Those Infamous Tyrants.

Praise The Child, And You Make Love To The Mother.